


Broken Omens

by starknight



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Agnes Nutter's Prophecies, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Major Character Injury, Mutual Pining, Plot, Podfic Welcome, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, The Second Second Coming (Good Omens), Unofficial Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-07-31 14:44:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 34,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20116798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starknight/pseuds/starknight
Summary: What happens when Heaven and Hell gets unrestricted access to the interwebs? What about when your mail-ordered prophecies have typos? And how about when you save the world together, only to still not work up the nerve to confess your long-repressed feelings of adoration?Well, here's your answer.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I was talking (well, yelling) about Good Omens with a friend, and this happened. Mostly spun off of Crowley's comment about the Next Big War being Heaven and Hell vs. Humanity. Also spun off of these two complete IDIOTS in love.
> 
> FOOTNOTES: I would recommend reading this in a webpage, because the footnotes are embedded as links - you should be able to click on the little number, read the footnote, and then click "return to text" to get back to where you were.
> 
> A HUGE THANK YOU to: FireBrimstone for helping me plot this out! [WanderingSilvan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderingsilvan/pseuds/Wanderingsilvan) for Beta-ing! And magicofdeduction for inspiring everything I could ever write about these dumbasses.
> 
> Comments and kudos mean the world to me, so if you're thinking about leaving them, please do. I hope you enjoy, and that tonight you have lovely dreams about whatever you like best. <3
> 
> tumblr @ gay-star-knight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [for anyone subscribed, yes this has been added after the original first, now second, chapter, but it comes first. :3]

_ “AZIRAPHALE!” _

This was all so familiar.

Crowley stumbled through the flames licking at his heels. Tears stung at his cheeks, clawing inevitable lines of grief into him.

He blinked through them, scouring the desert frantically, begging to God, Satan, anyone who was still listening. 

_ "AZIRAPHALE!" _

His voice cracked, hoarse with dust and grit and yelling.

They couldn’t - he couldn’t - surely there was no-one and nothing so cruel to take it all away, not  _ now  _ -

_ "AZIRAPHALE!" _

Crowley fell to his knees, and felt his trousers smouldering amidst the flames.

“Aziraphale,” he croaked, putting his face in his hands.

Crowley wept.


	2. After the Armageddon that Wasn't

**** **Crowley’s Apartment, London** \- That Night after the A-not-alypse, 2018

The bus, true to Crowley’s word, dropped them off in London. Aziraphale let his head fall back as he looked up at the ominous black building, blinking against tiny spits of rain[1]. It made him tired to be standing beneath the structure, feeling so tiny amidst the dark gloom.

“It’s the same as it’s always been, angel.” Crowley was holding open the entrance door, a raised eyebrow visible above his sunglasses. “Coming?”

Aziraphale shook himself. “Yes.” He hurried into the foyer, pausing in front of the elevator. He put his nerves down to the stress of the day - really, it was no wonder he was a mess.

Crowley wasn’t helping, though.

Not by sauntering into the miraculously-open elevator doors, or by leaning very _ closely _ past Aziraphale to press the button for the thirteenth floor. 

“Do you want to sleep?” Crowley asked gently.

Aziraphale looked up at him. “I - I haven’t slept for hundreds of years.”

“It’s nice, you know. You should try it.”

“Shouldn’t we figure out what on Earth we’re going to do tomorrow?” Aziraphale asked. 

“Choose your faces wisely. Isn’t it obvious?” Crowley took off his sunglasses, catlike eyes blinking up at Aziraphale. Aziraphale swallowed.

“We swap bodies, yes, but in case you hadn’t noticed, we’re really quite different. Are you sure you can pass as me?”

Crowley snorted, and straightened up, miming holding a teacup. “Pass the sugar, there’s a dear. Top ho, jolly good. Tickety-boo.” 

“I do not sound like that! My voice is very -,” Aziraphale cleared his throat, “- _ can _ be very deep, you know.”

Crowley looked up at the elevator ceiling, his cheeks oddly tense.

Aziraphale huffed. “Well, you know what, _ I’m _ the demon Crowley, and I am never nice to anyone. I wouldn’t even perform the tiniest of miracles. Not _ even _ for a very close friend.” He crossed his arms.

The elevator dinged, and came to a halt. Crowley sauntered out, but only after giving him A Look. Aziraphale followed him through to the foyer. 

“For Hea - well - _ something’s _sake,” he said. The concrete walls were bare and entirely unappealing. “I thought you might’ve put up some decor.”

Crowley shrugged. “Didn’t seem much point. Not with the End of Days so close, and all that.”

Aziraphale hummed in agreement.

“I don’t suppose you’d, uh, like anything to drink?” Crowley gestured towards one of the gaps in the concrete, which Aziraphale supposed had to pass as a doorway. 

“Don’t mind if I do,” he said, unable to repress a little smile. “I have to say, this is not how I thought the day would be Ending.”

“Good, isn’t it?” Crowley grinned. 

Half an hour later, they were at least a little tipsy, and well on their way to becoming rather intoxicated. The decor wasn’t quite so bad out of the hallway. Crowley had one comfortable couch, which Aziraphale had immediately tucked himself into. His shoes sat abandoned on the floor, feet warming beneath him.

“C-concrete floors are so _ stupid,” _ he muttered. “So cold, and b-b-boring.”

Crowley threw back his head where he sat and laughed. He was spread out, in contrast to Aziraphale’s small ball of space, arms thrown over the edges of the couch, legs spread over the cushion.

“You’re so _ silly _sometimes,” he said. “Look, I’ll just -,” he snapped his fingers. A thick, intricately patterned persian rug appeared beneath the couch. Aziraphale peered down at it tentatively.

“Well, I’m still _ cold. _”

Crowley raised an eyebrow at Aziraphale, and snapped his fingers again. A bar heater, exuding toasty warmth despite the complete absence of any power cord, appeared.

Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure why he felt disappointed. Warm, yes, but still disappointed.

“Better, angel?” Crowley asked.

“Better,” he admitted. “Thanks. You don’t have to, you know. I’m just needy. Tonight.”

“Well,” said Crowley, “You’re worth it.”

“I - oh,” Aziraphale said lamely. He let a pause draw out before him while his alcohol-addled brain tried to figure out a barb in the compliment. “Thanks,” he added after he could find none.

“I do miracles for you all the time, you know,” Crowley said, his brows creasing. “Tiny ones. Big ones. Medium-sized, mediocre miracles.”

“I know,” Aziraphale said, because he couldn’t think of what to say. “Thanks. Again.”

“Your impression was wrong,” Crowley continued. “You said I never did even the _ tiniest _ of miracles for you.”

“Oh, I - Crowley, it was a joke. You make those all the time.”

“Well,” Crowley said, pursing his lips in what was probably supposed to be stubbornness but just came across as stupidly sweet, “I didn’t like it. Not funny.”

Aziraphale bit his lip to stop himself from smiling. “No. You’re right. Not funny at all.”

“I _ am _nice to people,” Crowley went on, “When people are you.”

Aziraphale blinked. Where had the Foul Fiend Crowley gone? The demon who had pinned him up (closely, so closely) against a wall for daring to speak that very truth?

“I… I know,” he said tentatively. “Crowley?”

“Mmmm, angel?” Crowley’s head slipped down the couch a little, his mouth slightly agape, as if he’d forgotten to close it after he spoke. Aziraphale stared for entirely too long before remembering that usually in a conversation, two people must participate.

“I - well - I like it when you’re nice. To me. And - and other people, of course.” _ But mostly to me. _

Crowley mumbled something unintelligible. 

“What was that, dear?”

He pushed himself back up the couch a little, only to slide down further. “Doesn’t suit me.” Crowley appeared to give up on sitting, tossing his legs over one arm of the couch and letting his torso slouch further.

“Oh, Crowley. It suits you.” Aziraphale had lost track of what exactly they were talking about, and instead was focussing on the strands of Crowley’s hair that had started to tickle his pant leg.

Crowley opened his eyes, looking up at Aziraphale. The angel in question promptly froze. 

He had once thought it a great shame that the formerly-depthless golden eyes had been squeezed, shaped and shallowed into their snakelike counterparts. They used to scare him.

Silly. That was so silly. Crowley’s eyes shone like a rumpled seabed full of some great and unknown treasure. 

“Boo,” Crowley said softly. Aziraphale jumped violently and shot out of his seat. “Wha- angel?” But he was standing, barefoot, on the beautiful rug that Crowley had miracled for him, and in the glow of the heater Crowley miracled for him too, and in the apartment that Crowley had invited him to stay in, and Crowley was there, dishevelled, drunk, swimming in Aziraphale’s clouded vision… 

“Crowley,” he gasped. “It’s - it’s too much. I need to sober up, and - and -”

Crowley swung his legs onto the ground, at his side quicker than a flash. “Angel,” he said. “Calm down, angel.”

Aziraphale let his body expel the alcohol, ridding himself of the fuzziness in his veins, and looked at Crowley. He let out a long breath.

“How do you sleep, again?”

That’s how Crowley ended up lying in bed with Aziraphale _ (in bed with Aziraphale) _, the angel fidgeting like anything, sheets tucked up over his chest, trying desperately to sleep. 

“How long, approximately, will this take?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley sighed. “Forever, if you never shut up.” 

Silence fell, and it would have stayed fallen, except for-

“Your pyjama bottoms are too long for me. My toes keep getting caught in them.”

Crowley closed his eyes, willing himself not to lean over towards Aziraphale and roll up his black silk pyjama bottoms. They had lines. Boundaries. Rules. An Arrangement which did _ not _ involve one rolling up the other’s clothing. “You’re killing me,” he muttered. “You know, I _ have _ a guest bedroom.” _ Which Aziraphale is never ever allowed to sleep in, _his subconscious added, enjoying the angel in his bed far too much for its own good.

He gave himself a mental telling off. 

“Oh, well, if I’m disturbing you… I just… thought it might be easier if I could see how you did it.”

“Whatever,” Crowley said, throttling his inner suggestions. Aziraphale propped himself up on an elbow, looking very uncertain. 

“Well, go on then. Fall asleep.”

“I - we - uh - er - look. I can’t just fall asleep with you _ watching _ me,” Crowley said.

“Why not?” Aziraphale looked _ offended _.

“It’s just… Oh, never mind.” Crowley resigned himself to A Quick Death[2], and closed his eyes.

He let his breathing steady out, pushing away the gnawing edge of anxiety, and forced his limbs to relax. Or at least _ look _like they were relaxed. He wasn’t sure how successfully this endeavour was going.

It felt like an age until Aziraphale next moved. Internally, Crowley breathed a sigh of relief, only to feel a warm gust of air wam his cheek. His eyes snapped open, and he came face to face with the angel.

“What the fuck, Aziraphale?”

“Oh - oh, I’m sorry, Crowley, I thought you were asleep!”

“Look, just - there’s a line here, alright?” He drew a line down the middle of the bed with his finger. “Stay over there.” _ What are you doing? _his mind screamed. 

Aziraphale, looking slightly crestfallen, moved back onto his half. “Alright. I do apologise, I just wanted to - erm -”

“Goodnight, angel,” Crowley got out, before Aziraphale could say anything that might jeopardize their position, before he could start making changes, moving beyond the Safe Territory they had very carefully established. 

He turned over, and faked a deep sleep for eight hours.

**Outside The Ritz, London **\- The Next Day, 2018

“So, what now, then?” Aziraphale asked, shrugging on his coat. The Ritz sign glowed above them in the dimming daylight, leaves whipping through the streets.

Crowley looked over at his friend, weighing the balance. He wondered if Aziraphale would follow him back to his apartment if he asked.

“I’ll walk you to your bookshop,” he said instead, and began strolling in its vague direction.

Aziraphale huffed, following, “I meant more in the Grand and Ineffable Scheme of things. What do you think will happen now?”

“Heaven and Hell will come after us at some point, I expect. And they’ll eventually get so fed up with the humans that…”

Aziraphale frowned. “Yes, I would love to disagree, but, considering it all, well - I can’t.”

“We need a plan,” Crowley said. “Or at the very least, an emergency fire exit.”

“Alpha Centauri?” Aziraphale suggested, his voice quiet. Crowley whipped his head around to stare at the angel.

“I - what about it?” he asked. 

“Oh, nothing,” Aziraphale said with a smile. “It’s always an emergency fire exit.”

“Right,” Crowley agreed, his mind whirling. “Duh.”

They walked in silence for a time, Crowley trying not to think about Aziraphale’s sudden change of heart in being stuck entirely alone on a planet with him[3].

They reached the bookshop entirely too soon. It was nearly dark now, light just hitting the tips of the buildings. Crowley turned to Aziraphale.

“Well then, I’ll just…” he motioned with a thumb over his shoulder.

Aziraphale did that thing. That thing where he smiled, and he seemed to glow. Crowley’s heart jumped into his throat, before he reminded his mortal chassis firmly that demons did not _ have _hearts.

“Come by tomorrow?” Aziraphale asked, beaming. 

Crowley stepped forwards, his mortal chassis apparently possessed. He floundered around for the culprit, urging his body to _please_ _think _before acting. His hand rested on Aziraphale’s shoulder, as if to pull him in. _For what?_

He could feel the warmth of Aziraphale’s hand near his own, dangling at his side awkwardly. He looked down, to see the angel looking up at him, a different sort of intensity in his eyes.

“Crowley,” he breathed.

It was too much. Too fast. Aziraphale had said as much the other night, hadn’t he? 

“I’ll - yes. Tomorrow.” He dropped his hand off Aziraphale’s shoulder as if it were burning, which, come to think of it, it might have been, and turned around, striding into the dark. He didn’t want to give himself a moment to look at the angel’s face.

He didn’t want to see the relief there.

Aziraphale blinked rapidly as he watched Crowley’s retreating form. Had he done something wrong? Crowley hadn’t even so much as looked at him before retreating so suddenly.

He felt the bitter edge of disappointment creep in. Well, you couldn’t experience a human range of emotions without the bad ones. There was something else, though. Something that felt more permanent, and more distancing, and far more personal.

He stared after the demon until he was out of sight, and then, deflating a little, turned to his bookshop and let himself in.

If he’d understood himself a little more, he might have realised the feeling was rejection.

**Jasmine Cottage, Tadfield** \- The Next Next Day

Anathema leaned against the doorframe, hot cup of peppermint tea in hand, watching Newt sleep.

He was sprawled diagonally across the bed, arms spread wide, snoring faintly. She’d woken up after being pushed right to the edge, and having to face either the dire prospect of spooning or falling to the cold and dusty floor.

She’d gotten up instead.

_ Do you want to be a descendant all your life? _ His words were still echoing, rippling. She couldn’t put her finger on it. Something was Changing. For once, it didn’t have to be written down for her to feel it. 

“Mmmmgh,” Newt mumbled against her pillow. She could see a little damp patch beneath his open mouth. The pillow, hand-embroidered, had cost her £20.

Something snapped in her, and she set her peppermint tea down on its engraved silver coaster, going to Newt. She shook his arm, a little harder than necessary.

“Newt,” she said. “Newt, wake up.”

He looked up at her, blinking heavily. “Ana?”

Irritation seeped deep into her gut. “I _ told _ you not to call me that. It’s _ Anathema.” _

With all the security in the world, Newt smiled at her. “Ana,” he said. “It’s so early. Come back to bed.” He reached for her face with a warm hand. She pushed it away, sighing.

“Newt. Come on, get up. We need to talk.” She wasn’t going to do it while he was still naked, in bed, and the awkwardness would drag on even longer after she said it.

“Ughhhhhh…” He flopped back onto her bed. “Just another five minutes?”

Anathema sighed. “Newt, I have something very important to tell you, and if you don’t get up now, it will be considerably more unpleasant for us both.”

Newt squinted at her. “You’re being funny, right?”

That was it.

You see, Anathema hadn’t dreamed of the man she would **reach oute** to all her life to be claimed by some amateur not-engineer who was simultaneously too insecure to come up with any romantic date ideas and too self-assured to think of the possibility that Anathema might _ want _something like a romantic date. 

“I can’t do this,” she said. “We can be friends, but this - thing - is over. I’m going to go downstairs, and read the newspaper, and you can get all your stuff, and I’ll see you around sometimes. Catch up for coffee in a neutral location every few weeks. That’s all.”

She turned her back, hurried downstairs, and read the newspaper.

Newt appeared, dishevelled, red-eyed, and smaller than usual in the doorway.

“Hullo,” he said, not meeting her gaze. “I, er, I’ll just be off then.”

“Alright,” she agreed. “You know, it was good for the first two days. I was just - thinking. You’re right. I _ don’t _want to be a descendant all my life.”

“Oh,” Newt said. “Well. That’s something I’ll always regret saying, then.”

She sighed. “I’ll see you around, Newt.”

“O- Okay. Bye, then.” He walked to the door, and finally, _ finally, _he was gone. She exhaled a long breath through her nose, finished her last bite of wholewheat rye toast, and resolved to spend the morning cleaning and organizing the house.

It was then that Newt appeared at the window, knocking. 

“What the _ hell-,” _ she began, only to see what he was holding.

A yellowed, wrinkled envelope addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Pulsifer.

Anathema’s thoughts were less than coherent at this point, but if they had to be formed into real words that real people could understand, they would have read:

_ Oh, fuck off. _

**Aziraphale’s Bookshop, London** \- Four Minutes Later

Aziraphale scrabbled from his desk, almost tearing his precious Macbeth (With Extra Scenes for the Mafter-Miftris of my Paffion[4]), to answer the phone.

“Crowley?” he asked the receiver.

“Anathema, actually,” came the voice.

“Oh. Alright. I mean, er, lovely to hear from you, Anathema, what can I do…?” What if Crowley called now? He might think Aziraphale was busy, and then not leave a message, or call back, and-

“Agnes sent me more prophecies.”

_ That _ got his attention. “More - more prophecies? Oh, oh gosh, I, say no more, I’ll be there in a jiffy!”

“Wait, Aziraphale-”

He set the receiver down with a click.

**Jasmine Cottage, Tadfield **\- One Second Earlier

“I… burnt them all…” Anathema muttered to the dead line, watching the ashes glow in her fireplace. Newt, still sitting at her table, sniffed.

“I’ll just… go, shall I?”

**Crowley’s Apartment, London **\- Add on the Time it takes an Angel in a Hurry to Cross London

Crowley was a wreck. He had come home, cursing himself to Hell, to Heaven, to Alpha Centauri, for moving too fast, too slow, being too forwards, not nearly forwards enough, and altogether tying himself into knots which were too unfathomable to even begin the picking-at process.

He lay on (his side of) the bed, staring dully at the concrete roof, wishing for Hell to come and just consume him already. Stupid idea, switching faces. They should have accepted their fates and embraced Oblivion while they had the chance. Less painful.

Dumb angel.

A vicious and insistent knocking suddenly began from, Crowley assumed, the front door. He found that, actually, he was regretting the loss of his Holy Water (he didn’t have to put _ all _ of it in that bloody bucket, did he?), and he very much wanted to be allowed the chance to see his friend - best friend - again.

He leapt out of bed, materializing his usual clothes, reluctantly adding a tartan collar in memory of what had been the day before, and crept to the front door. For good measure, he materialized a cricket bat, good and heavy, with a cast-iron interior. 

Evil God, but it was heavy. Crowley’s arms shook with the weight of it, holding it aloft, as he unlatched the door in one swift motion, and stepped back, preparing to strike Hastur right across the noggin.

He let the cricket bat fall to the ground when he saw Aziraphale.

A moment later, when it hit his foot, he swore so viciously and colourfully that the angel paled.

“Oh, Crowley, my dear, are you alright?” The angel bent down as if to examine his injury. Crowley gasped for breath.

“I - yes, yes, fine, I’m fine,” he said, trying not to let the heat in his eyes show, putting his weight back on the injured foot and suppressing another bout of swearing. “Tickety-boo,” he added for effect.

Aziraphale didn’t look convinced, and didn’t move from his kneeling position. “Let me have a look at it,” he insisted, reaching for Crowley’s foot.

“Aaaa-aa-ahhhh,” Crowley let out, shuffling backwards agonizingly. “I’m great! Never been better!”

Just then, the elevator dinged, and Crowley winced as a man stared at them, Aziraphale kneeling there, Crowley gasping for breath, and - for fuck’s sake - his fly undone. The man’s eyes bulged, and he made a run for his apartment. When the lock clicked, Crowley looked back to Aziraphale, whose lips were pressed together.

Crowley let out a snort, and then they were finished. Aziraphale laughed and laughed, sitting down and leaning against the doorframe for support. Crowley took care to do up his pants before joining him one of those helpless, endless giggling sessions which leaves the participant rather wishing nothing had been so funny in the first place.

“His _ face,” _ Crowley wheezed.

_ “Your face,” _Aziraphale choked out, his face as red as a tomato. “You’re a demon, for God’s sake! You - you see a thwart, you wile!”

“That was not a _ wile,” _ Crowley protested. “That was mortifying! I had to hold eye contact with him for - he’s my neighbour, Jesus Fucking Christ, I have to see him again, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale threw back his head and laughed. Crowley grinned, the spasms in his chest finally dying down, watching Aziraphale’s exposed neck as he chortled.

“Ooooh, that was good,” Aziraphale wheezed after a while. “I haven’t had such a good fit since Twelfth Night.”

“Now, _ that _ was a night to remember,” Crowley said. “Remember when Olivia’s voice cracked?”

Aziraphale imitated the deep bass voice that had emanated from that particular actor, though admittedly, his own range ruined the effect somewhat. “A blank, my lord. She never told her love,” he boomed.

“Orsino choked on a grape,” Crowley remembered. Aziraphale smiled at him. No, not smiled - he was _ beaming _. For someone's sake, could he stop doing that? Crowley’s internal organs wouldn’t survive it, and he wasn’t sure Hell would issue him with a new body any time soon. “Anyway, er, why are you here?”

Aziraphale looked at him with raised eyebrows for a beat. “I - er - oh! The prophecies! Yes! Anathema called, and we have to get to Tadfield immediately. I brought my field kit!” He held up a little worn briefcase that Crowley knew, from experience, contained altogether too many types of page-turning tongs.

“Prophecies? They go past the End?”

“It seems so,” Aziraphale beamed. “Coming, then?”

“Coming,” Crowley said, too quickly.

**Tadfield Cottage, Jasmine **\- Newt’s Watch is Not Nice

“Anathema!” Aziraphale cried, opening his arms in greeting. She eyed him, and did not approach with much enthusiasm. “So good to see you. Now, the prophecies…?”

Anathema sighed. It seemed to Aziraphale like a very practiced sigh. Harried parents of five children would be impressed with that sigh. “Aziraphale, I destroyed them.”

Aziraphale stared at her. “Destroyed?” It must be a joke. Oh, but Aziraphale couldn’t keep up with humanity’s sense of humour these days. He laughed nervously.

“They’re in the fireplace.” She pointed to the remnants. Aziraphale felt his heart and face crumple, but then again, he was well-versed in emergency book repairs. He seized his flame-proof iron tongs from the briefcase, already opened in Crowley’s arms, and fell to his knees by the little fire. He gently sifted through the ashes, looking for scraps, anything.

He even stirred a little sorting magic through the molecules, encouraging them to remember their neighbours, to go to them once more. A page-shaped object hung in front of him, all made of grey dust and ashes. He sighed - not as impressively as Anathema, but still enough to convey his deep and darkest disappointment.

_ “Why _ did you have to do this?” he asked her. “The only guide to the future. The _ only _ guide to the future, and you had it right here, in front of you.”

Anathema scrunched up her nose. “I don’t want to live life like that anymore. I have to make my own future. I was only calling to tell you that, you know. It wasn’t supposed to be this Whole Thing.”

It was all very well when she put it like that, but... "You couldn't have just given them to us?"

Newt, sitting in a worn wooden chair, slurped from his mug noisily.

“I - look - God, why are you still here, Newt?" Anathema demanded, whipping around to face him, "I told you to leave two hours ago.”

Aziraphale looked from her to Crowley to Newt back to Crowley again. They exchanged glances that read, in order, _ Yeesh, Are they okay?, We really shouldn’t be here, This is awkward, Let’s leave. _

“So, we’ll just be, er, on our way then…”

Neither Newt nor Anathema took any notice of Crowley, who proceeded to snap the briefcase shut, and held out his hand to Aziraphale. Aziraphale, flushed presumably from the proximity of the fire, took Crowley’s hand, letting himself be tugged out the door.

“Phew,” Aziraphale remarked once they were outside. “I think we might have overstepped ourselves a little there.”

Crowley glanced at him, eyebrows raised. “You think? It’s not like you to hang up on someone before they’ve said _ ta-ta. _” 

Aziraphale frowned. “I know, I feel simply awful. I was just so excited.”

“Not very _ angelic _ of you.” Aziraphale felt his hand being squeezed, and started, realizing his hand was still in Crowley’s grip. 

“Oh, don’t tease me, Crowley,” he said. Crowley grinned, and pulled his hand away. Aziraphale briefly mourned the loss of warmth.

“Now, while we’re here… I don’t suppose we should do a spot of influencing?” Crowley said slyly.

“Influencing?”

“Adam? He handled the Not Apocalypse very well, buuuuut… It might be a good idea just to remind him of his duty to, you know, not blow up the planet.” 

Aziraphale thought it over. “I think,” he said eventually, “that we had better leave Antichrists alone for a bit. He’s done just fine so far.”

Crowley nodded. “Alright, then.”

“What - no argument?” 

“I trust you,” Crowley said. Aziraphale blinked, and then let a smile spread across his face.

“Oh, well, thank you. I trust you too, you know. More than - well, anyone.”

He looked sideways to see a corner of Crowley’s mouth pull up slightly. “Thanks, angel,” he said. “Lunch?”

**[1] Note for Americans and Other Aliens: the meaning of rain ‘spitting’ in British is otherwise known as very light rain, the kind which falls as a precursor to a more substantial downpour. This must not be interpreted literally. God does not deign to fall so far as to ** ** _spit _ ** **directly on humankind.**

[return to text]

**[2] Not to be confused with A Small Death which, it must be said, is a whole other… thing.**

[return to text]

**[3] He was failing at this particular endeavour. **

[return to text]

**[4] Sonnet 20 has always been the subject of much academic controversy. Aziraphale had been at first flattered by its existence, then made a little uncomfortable, then relieved when Crowley had played the part of Intimidating Boyfriend for a night and thoroughly scared Mr. Shakespeare off.**

[return to text]


	3. The In-Between

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Henlo again my friends! First thing to note is that a new chapter 1 went up recently, a prologue, if you will. We couldn't have this starting off just with pure fluff, now, could we?
> 
> I hope you enjoy this update, and many many thanks again to my wonderful beta [WanderingSilvan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderingsilvan/pseuds/Wanderingsilvan). Stay safe, sane, and awesome, all of you!

**Aziraphale’s Bookshop **\- November 3rd, 2020

“I don’t suppose your lot had anything to do with this?” Aziraphale asked, frowning at the small television. Currently, it was displaying more red than blue, which meant that very soon, a lot more orange would be on the news.

“We’re demons, Aziraphale, we’re not _Nazis._ My lot didn’t have anything to do with concentration camps the first time around either.”

“Humans will think of the cruelest things,” said Aziraphale. Crowley didn’t seem to have anything to say to that. They watched Republican votes spread across the United States as easily as butter over a freshly baked scone. 

“Oh, I can’t bear it,” Aziraphale snapped. He grabbed the remote and switched off the television. “I can’t understand why everyone wants the world to go so backwards and horrible. Bad enough that Britain’s already got that - that - that _bastard_ for a PM…”

Crowley’s face started swimming in his vision, so Aziraphale buried his face in his hands. He tried to take deep breaths.

“Angel?” He could hear Crowley scooting closer, across the couch. A hand was laid on his back, tentatively at first - then it began rubbing soothing circles. “Come on, Angel, it’s alright. We’ve seen so much worse.”

Aziraphale wanted to say that it didn’t make this time _right,_ it didn’t make anything about this time _better,_ but he also didn’t want to admit to having cried at all those other horrid points of history. 

“Let’s go out, hmm? I’ll drive you anywhere you want. We don’t have to watch this rubbish.” Crowley’s voice was tender. 

Aziraphale nodded shakily, letting himself be pulled to his feet by Crowley.

They were silent until they reached the real countryside surrounding London. Tiny country lanes built for cars much smaller than Crowley’s, the smell of cow shit (god, but that reminded Aziraphale terribly every century other than the most recent two), and stars that could be viewed the way God intended.

Lying there, in a dark grassy field, on the picnic rug and cushions Crowley had miracled for him, Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel a little peaceful. He looked up at the stars. It was comforting to imagine they were eternal and constant - it’s just that they weren’t. He could still remember shaping some of them, back when power was still crude and God hadn’t quite refined Her creative style.

Aziraphale wasn’t stupid, and he wasn’t blind. Humanity was gaining power in leaps and bounds now. Barring any Heavenly influence, if they kept on being _stupid _and electing the wrong people… Aziraphale’s heart broke at the idea of the stars winking out. It would be slow, or it would be fast. One by one, or all of them at once.

He didn’t realize there were, for the second time that night, hot tears running down his face.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asked. Aziraphale could feel him moving the blanket, rolling onto his side. Aziraphale closed his eyes, biting his lip, wishing for the emptiness within him to be gone. The heat on his face seemed to intensify, and then - oh. He opened his eyes again to see Crowley’s hand hovering over his cheek. A gentle thumb caressed the soft skin underneath his eyes.

“It’s all hopeless,” Aziraphale said, wincing at the crack in his voice. “Maybe there’s not anything really worth fighting for. Should’ve just let the world End the first time.”

“Hey,” Crowley said. “It’s okay. There’s always something worth fighting for.” Aziraphale let himself look into Crowley’s eyes, unmasked by the usual sunglasses. They were intense, and hopeful, and resolved. “What about crepes?”

“What about crepes?” Aziraphale asked.

“Well, aren’t they worth fighting for?” Crowley smiled. “And - and fancy champagne, and your favourite scones with cream and jam, and the perfect sponge cake.”

Aziraphale let out a watery laugh. “You forgot sushi,” he pointed out. “And I’ve just recently become very fond of craft butter. You can get garlic-flavoured butter… cinnamon-flavoured… strawberry…” He tailed off, becoming aware of Crowley’s grin. “What?”

“Nothing,” the demon said. Aziraphale very much doubted it was _nothing._

“No, what is it?” he insisted.

“You’re so easy to please,” Crowley said, still grinning away like a maniac. _“Garlic-flavoured butter…”_

Aziraphale just huffed in response. It was a bit nippy out, actually, and he miracled a blanket, pulling it up to his chin, and tossing the other half out towards Crowley, who accepted easily.

“We can go home if you’re cold,” Crowley said.

“No,” Aziraphale replied. “It’s lovely here.”

They lay for the rest of the night in peaceful silence, apart from when Crowley started snoring. And if Aziraphale wound up snuggling closer to him in the night, well, it _was_ a bit cold. 

**The Misty Manor of Manifestations, London **\- July, 2026

Crowley hadn’t known he could get too much bloody fucking blasted heat. His body temperature ran quite a bit cooler than your average mortal, but _this -_ this was too much. It had all started that summer in 2019. Each year, records were broken, more swimming pools built, air conditioning units becoming staples in British households.

It was currently 41 degrees. Forty-one fucking degrees. In _London._ Crowley threw his head back against the leather headrest in his Bentley, letting a low growl of frustration escape. It felt like he was driving through a certain M25-shaped wall of fire again, and the Bentley groaned in agreement.

A knock sounded on the window. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s face appeared a moment later, altogether too cheery for Crowley’s current mood. Crowley wound down the window.

“Yeah, hi,” he said.

“You got my message, then.”

“Why are we here, angel?” Crowley asked. 

“Ah,” Aziraphale said, his eyes glowing, “I was hoping you’d ask. Come on.”

Crowley opened the door, his legs spilling out onto the pavement. It wasn’t any better outside the car. “This had better be good.” After all, it had interrupted his session of sleeping beside the fan on full blast.

Once out of the car, Crowley took one look at Aziraphale and staggered back against it, swearing when his skin came into contact with the metal. 

“Angel!” he said. “What in the ever-loving _fuck_ are you wearing?” 

Aziraphale was wearing some perfectly respectable shorts (knee-length, beige, with large square pockets); a pale pink collared shirt; and white leather _sandals._ He was also sporting an extremely offended expression. 

“What?” he demanded. “It’s too hot for propriety.”

“Clearly,” Crowley said, grinning.

“Oh, don’t give me that look.”

“What look?”

“It’s not _funny, _Crowley, it’s a direct result of climate change.”

“Anything that gets you to wear shorts, angel, is worth it,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and put a hand on his hip. “Let’s go, you fiend. We’re booked for half past.”

“Booked for what?” Crowley tried.

Aziraphale gave him a smile that was altogether too wicked to soothe. “You’ll find out.”

A séance. It was a fucking séance.

“Nope,” said Crowley, standing in the foyer. “Nope.”

It was _embarrassing,_ this kind of stuff, and he’d told Aziraphale that before. It was about as real as those toy mobile phones they used to make as kids’ toys. They could make all the sounds, the feeling, and the buttons to push, and if you were gullible enough you’d fall for it. But there was never any real connection to the afterworld - not unless you were properly occult.

The witches had all died out centuries ago, and people like Anathema were extremely rare. A place titled _The Misty Manor of Manifestations_ was not, in Crowley’s opinion, worth a centimetre of the land it occupied.

“Oh, I thought you’d be excited,” Aziraphale said. “Her reviews are all excellent.”

“Why do _you_ want to go to a séance, anyway?”

“I thought it could be enlightening.” There was a strange twinkle in the angel’s eyes that Crowley definitely did not like.

Just then a bell was rung and the other people in the foyer started milling through a black door that seemed to have opened by itself. _By itself,_ Crowley internally scoffed. He resolved to jam it closed on their way out.

Aziraphale smiled again (really, he did that far too often), and held out a hand for Crowley to go first. He sneered but obeyed anyway. He wondered what he _wouldn’t_ do if Aziraphale asked it; a second-rate séance on the hottest fucking day in Britain was getting towards the bottom of his list. Hell, but he would do almost anything Aziraphale wanted. There was a term for that, he knew it, it was on the tip of his tongue -

“Oooh, I’m not sure if I like this place,” Aziraphale said behind him. “It feels spooky.”

They entered into a dark room, high-ceilinged and surprisingly (blessedly) cool. A draft (or something like it) blew across Crowley’s face when he entered. The hair on the back of his neck rose.

“I like spooky,” he admitted, deliberately not turning around to see Aziraphale’s answering smile. He could feel it burning at him from behind. 

_Whipped._ That was the word he’d been looking for, damn it all.

He felt something touch his hand, and whipped around to find the source, expecting some half-assed attempt like a feather duster stuck to the wall, or someone dressed in a sheet going around touching hands to scare the customers.

But it was just Aziraphale, looking abashed.

“It’s _spooky_,” he said, eyes wide. Crowley felt a warmth in his chest build. Really, it was only a second-rate joint. How had Aziraphale made it through six thousand years with such a soft heart?

Crowley softened and held out his hand. Aziraphale smiled a gentle smile and took it.

It wasn’t until they were seated in a circle, one hand linked tightly with Aziraphale’s, the other sitting as loose as possible on top of some stranger’s, that Crowley finally twigged.

“Ladies, Gentlemen, and Genderless Beings,” a female voice said. “Welcome to the Misty Manor. Please turn off all your mobile phones, pagers, or anything that might disturb the peace.”

“Madame Tracy?” Crowley asked incredulously. Aziraphale squeezed his hand.

“Ooh, that’s never - oh, it is you! Both of you!”

“Lovely to see you again,” said Aziraphale. “Splendid place you’ve got here.”

“Oh, thank you. We best have a cup of tea afterwards, love.”

“Charming,” Aziraphale smiled.

“Oi,” a gruff male voice said from Crowley’s left. “You’re ruining my immersion.”

Crowley snorted quietly, but not quiet enough that the man wouldn’t hear him. 

“Sorry, dear,” Madame Tracy said, not sounding sorry at all. “Alright, then.” She rolled up her long woollen sleeves only for them to immediately fall down again. Her head fell back.

“Spirits,” she intoned in a deep voice. “Spirits, we are here and open to receive your wisdom.”

Silence fell. 

Madame Tracy’s breathing started to become ragged, her chest rising and falling dramatically. A horrible scent arose. Initially, Crowley recognized the stink as someone’s not-very-well-digested butter chicken and scrunched up his nose. But then it became more.

More and more and more.

Until the unmistakable stench of Hell filled the room.

“What the -” Crowley’s voice was drowned out by a loud rumbling. 

_“Be away wit’ ye! Ye been twice already today!”_ That voice… it was familiar. Familiar, and coming out of Madame Tracy’s mouth.

“Just one more session, love,” she said, in her usual tone.

_“Och, alright. But there’ll be nay tarryin’.”_

“Of course not.”

“Mr. Shadwell?” Aziraphale asked. 

_“Aye, it’s the great southern pansy!”_

“The very same! I hate to ask, but, well, are you - well - dead?”

“I think it was the condensed milk that got him,” Madame Tracy whispered.

_“I can hear ye!”_

“Well, why didn’t you invite us to the funeral?” Aziraphale sounded hurt. Crowley ran a soothing thumb over Aziraphale’s knuckle before he could stop himself.

“There wasn’t one,” said Madame Tracy. “Didn’t seem right, what with still talking to him all the time.”

_“Let’s be on wit’ it, then.”_ Indeed, the rest of the séance-goers were beginning to shift restlessly.

“Alright, love. Now, Mr. Scroggie… Any requests?” 

**Somewhere On The Internet (at Aziraphale's Bookshop) **\- February, 2030

Four children had grown up. Four children had YouTube channels. See if you can tell.

  1. A) "Hey internet, today we're going to play some epic new games and see how long it takes to get on the international highscores…"
  2. B) "... Ohhhh. That's got chocolate in it. Strawberry? Or is it raspberry?" *ice-cream slurpy noises*
  3. C) "Today we're talking about NPAT and how your company should keep records of-"
  4. D) "Fuck the haters. See, we're sexist by default, it's just the way we're conditioned. The quicker you can learn to reprogram your unconscious bias - which definitely exists - the quicker we can take down the patriarchy."

They enjoyed the occasional collaboration, too. Or at least, A, B, and D did. It was hard to include Wensleydale’s chartered accounting tutorials.

Crowley was a frequent viewer on each of their channels (again, excluding the accounting). It made it easy to keep an eye on them all, and most importantly, the anti-anti-Christ.

Aziraphale, contrary to popular belief, had a smartphone (courtesy of Crowley), a YouTube account (which Crowley had to log into for him), and the perfect search algorithm customized for him. He only needed to type in "nail tutorials", and he was set. Well. He liked to add adjectives like shiny, glitter, rainbow, pretty, and so on. 

He was following a particularly elegant one (pale blue, with a delicate scattering of golden sparkles) when Crowley emerged from their[5] bedroom. Aziraphale was sitting in a little patch of sunlight on the floor, a thick rug beneath him.

"Mor-mor-moooorfternoon," Crowley yawned. "Mmnnnm."

"Did you enjoy your slumber, dear?" Aziraphale asked, looking up from his nails. Crowley's eyes were unfocused, and his hair terribly rumpled. He was only wearing a black silk dressing gown which stopped just above his knees.

Aziraphale tried not to let Crowley hear him swallow.

"Unnfffff," said Crowley. "Nnnngh." He flopped down, facefirst, onto the worn sofa. 

Aziraphale looked back at his nails quickly, trying not to think about the pale expanse of upper thigh his eyes had momentarily been graced with. He continued his work, hands a little shakier than before.

Crowley snapped his fingers, his phone appearing suddenly in his hand. He shuffled jerkily onto his side - however, Aziraphale was _not_ watching - and swiped at the screen.

"Never too… ahhh…" He yawned again, "... early… for cutting some idiots down to size."

"You're not doing that - that thing again, are you?"

"Thing, angel?"

"What was it? Dungposting. Something to do with fertiliser?"

"_Shit_posting, Aziraphale, how many times?"

"My celestial mind palace simply does not retain that kind of language," said Aziraphale primly.

"Piss off."

"I'm so sorry, I can't hear you, dear." Aziraphale allowed himself a smile at his nails. They really were gorgeous. Now just to dry them.

_"Anyway,_ it's… it's the M25 of the internet. You know, I almost had the sigil of odegra made into an emoji?"

Aziraphale observed his nails calmly. _Emoji._ That had to be a made up word. Crowley must be testing his patience.

"Lovely," Aziraphale said, stroking a finger over his thumbnail, admiring the subtle rasp of the glitter.

"I got a Christian dating site shut down," Crowley went on, his tone wistful. "There was some surprisingly sinful stuff going on-"

"Oh, fuck!" Aziraphale cried. He looked up at Crowley, clapped the other hand over his mouth, and peered down at his nail. "Beg pardon! But - oh, it's ruined, look at this… _You _distracted me!" He pointed an accusing and badly smudged finger at Crowley.

Crowley gave an exasperated groan, and flopped off the couch, crawling towards him. “You never leave it enough time to dry, angel.”

Aziraphale examined the nail again, screwing up his face in concentration. “Oh, I’ll have to redo it. Bugger.” He clapped his hand over his mouth again. “Sorry, dear, I… Oh…”

He trailed off as Crowley took his hand, kneeling by his side. Crowley examined the nail from all angles. Aziraphale could feel his breath very faintly.

“It’s only the top layer,” said Crowley. He brought Aziraphale’s hand right to his lips - so close, Aziraphale could feel their heat - and blew gently.

The glitter lifted off his nail and spiralled lazily into nothingness.

Aziraphale could no longer feel Crowley’s breath over his fingertips. He dared to look up at Crowley’s face; it was full of an emotion that the demon didn’t usually let show. Tenderness. 

Aziraphale made to draw his hand back. “Uh-uh-uh,” Crowley muttered. He waved a lazy hand over Aziraphale’s nail. Aziraphale could see gold dust, reforming out the air, forming into something - a shape? - and settling back on his nail.

This time, Crowley let him take back his hand. He inspected the design. It was a little golden circle - was it a trick of the light, or was it glowing faintly?

“A halo,” he murmured. “Gosh, I haven’t worn one of those in millennia.”

“I know,” Crowley said. “I mean, not that I’ve been, you know, keeping track, or, uh, anything like that.”

Aziraphale felt his face heat up. “They’ve sort of gone out of fashion, yes.”

“Pity.”

“Is it?”

“It’d make a good reading light.” Crowley flashed his teeth at Aziraphale, and went back to the couch.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale said.

“Mmm?”

“Thank you.”

Crowley looked up at him, eyes dark and soft. “My pleasure, angel.”

  
  
  
  
  


**[5] Aziraphale's. But Crowley slept in it more than he did.**

[return to text]


	4. Outside the Garden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my glorious beta, [WanderingSilvan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderingsilvan/pseuds/Wanderingsilvan). 
> 
> TW for vomiting/emetophobia in footnote 8 - stay safe, sane, and awesome, people. Remember that I love you!

**International Express Offices, London - ** 2035

Leslie liked to think he had had a good crack at life. He had a steady job which took him all over the world; he loved his wife; he’d had that hallucination that he’d never told anyone about, granted, but that was 15 years ago. He was safe now, and life should be good.

Except that it wasn’t.

“What the hell are you playing at?” he demanded. “I’m still fit for duty. Look at these calves - mountain biking on the weekend, I was!”

His boss, Aditi, rubbed at her temple, leaning back in her chair. “I’m sorry, Leslie. We just don’t have the demand for manual delivery we used to.”

“Bloody hell. Look, I’ve only got another year to the pension, there must be  _ something  _ I can do.”

Aditi grimaced.

“Well, fuck it then, I’ll go. Worked here for forty-odd years, no reason to treat me well, I’ve reached my use-by date, so chuck me out. Fuck.” Leslie got up and stormed out. Well, he would have, but the coats on the door stopped it from slamming properly. 

“I told you, it’s out of my hands! Don’t take this out on me! God knows I’ll be next…” Aditi’s voice faded as he reached the corridor. He checked his watch and swore. He couldn’t go home at eleven in the morning - it would be like giving up.

Life  _ should _ be good. He’d spent his life picking up everyone else’s loose ends, ferrying them loyally, only three times he’d lost a delivery in his entire career. He was, or rather  _ had been _ , a  _ good _ delivery man.

He reached the street and let his feet take him to The Bog. The rest of his body was still too angry to think.  _ Fired. _ Fuck. The pub was crowded for the time of day, smelling of hot chips and tired servers[6]. It was about the only place in London you could get proper service these days, complete with apathetic gazes and borderline insults. 

The Zoomies had taken that away from him too. Blasted plastic buggers, bleeping and blooping with all their fancy buttons and  _ did you enjoy your meal? _ and never getting tired or angry. No one could compete with that. Not even a delivery man with forty-five years experience. 

He stared at the bottom of his glass, unsure of how long had transpired since he had ordered it. The cracked leather seat beneath him rubbed uncomfortably. It really was full in here, forcing him to sit at the terrible bar stools for once. He looked around and frowned.

Half the International Express must be in here. All of them looking angry, fixed on their phones, fingers tapping furiously. 

The woman next to Leslie caught his eye. “Fired too? They must’ve gotten rid of the entire delivery crew. Insane. I heard they’re hooking Zoomies up to a  _ global internet-driven interface.” _ She made a face.

“Pricks, the lot of them.”

“It all started with email. Bloody email, I remember when it was just a geeky fad.” She flicked her fingers dismissively. “We made fun of anyone bothering to use it.”

“Those were the golden days,” Leslie agreed. “My wife used to be a typist. Had to retrain once computers got everyone hooked, too.”

“My ex-wife’s a computer scientist. Works for the Zoomies. Bitch.” 

They fumed in silence quite companionably together.

“Can’t believe them, huh?” someone said. “They just got fired.  _ Literally _ because of the world wide fucking web. And what do they do? They  _ tweeter _ it.”

Leslie looked over to his other side, surprised to see another drinking companion. They only looked to be in their early twenties. “Bit young, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Bit young for what? Going without the devil’s wireless waves?” They gestured around the room, as if to say,  _ there they are. _ “I’ve never once done a goggle search.”

Leslie immediately wished he could say the same. The woman next to him let out a gasp of awe.

“Your parents must be saints, huh?”

“They have  _ some  _ ideas right. The internet kills. The gender spectrum most certainly does not.” They shrugged.

Leslie patted their shoulder gently. “Sorry kid.”

“Whatever. God, I wish we could do something about the devil’s waves.”

“The internet?” the woman asked.

“Yes, like I  _ said. _ If only there was some Great Power that could destroy it for us.”

Leslie’s head began to tick. Metaphorically, of course. He didn’t need a certain puppet musical theme stuck in his head right now. Leslie’s head ticked,  _ metaphorically. _

“What’s your name, kid? I’m Adelaide,” the woman said.

“I’m Bellamy.”

Leslie realized after a second of silence that they were looking at him. “Oh - Leslie. Listen, there’s this delivery I did a while back. You know how some of them - they stay with you? Keep you up at night?”

Bellamy and Adelaide nodded seriously, as if they too had delivered to Death. Well, it was a crazy business. Maybe they had.

“Well, there was this - this  _ kid,  _ afterwards, and he took my hand, and then I was at home, with nothing different. He’s - well. He seems like the kind of person who would have Great Power.”

“How many eyebrows did he have?” Bellamy asked intently.

“Just… Just the regular two?”

They nodded as if something had been settled. “Let’s do some digging. Healthy digging with real shovels from God’s Green Earth. Not that internet coin digging.”

Exchanging bemused glances, Leslie and Adelaide followed them out of the pub, fresh air scraping the room’s warmth right off them. Without any idea of where they were going, what they were doing, or if any part of the plan involved a delivery, Leslie followed.

**Adam’s Mansion, Tadfield-ish** \- Later That Day

Adam had always been good at video games, but perhaps  _ good _ wasn’t quite the right word. He maintained that everyone else was simply bad at it, but there was no denying that his Antichrist powers had given him some strange influence over the digital realm. Today he was playing a vintage game, one he used to play as a kid. Skyrim still had some strange charm about it. Adam sometimes felt his fingers itching with the urge to make it  _ real. _

He wasn’t entirely sure that dragons wouldn’t just burn through the entire world, though. Better not to risk it.

And so this was the realest it ever got. Adam’s fingers flew over the keyboard, shouting, hacking, slashing, blocking in an eloquent dance that the developers could never have tested for.

When he was done, he blinked heavily, yanking the VR headset off and running a sweaty hand through his hair. “Thanks for watching, everyone,” he grinned at the camera. “And don’t forget - smash those like and sub buttons! Let’s break the internet and get a billion subs!”

He switched the camera off, and let himself fall back in the chair with a groan. God knew it paid well, but he was losing motivation to record regularly. He stretched, got up, put on his Extra Deluxe Plush Cat Slippers, and wandered down the magnificent sweeping staircase.

He looked at the small selection of fanmail his manager had delivered recently. One envelope in particular caught his eye - the fact that it was an envelope, for a start. Who the fuck wrote letters anymore? To be honest, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen one. He pushed aside the parcels (Adam already had way too much stuff) to reach it. He let it tear and unfold in front of him without his hands.

He really shouldn’t, considering the paparazzi that sometimes bothered him, but today his powers were itchy. Angry. Needy.  _ Just one good storm, _ they seemed to say.  _ Just let us have one. _

The letter was written neatly in blue ballpoint pen on some business stationery.

_ Dear AdamTheYoung, _

_ It has recently come to our attention that you have previously displayed supernatural abilities with effects up to and including: _

_ \- Kraken _

_ \- Vanishing nuclear reactors _

_ \- Aliens _

_ \- General Mass Manipulation _

_ We will release the full story to the public unless you call this number within 24 hours. _

_ Regards, _

_ Anonymous Blackmailers. _

A phone number was enclosed on a smaller piece of paper.

“Fuck,” said Adam. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, bugger.”

**The One Video Store left in London, London** \- One Hour Later

Leslie couldn’t stop his legs jiggling. He held the burner phone in his hand, glancing up anxiously at the others. 

“I still think we should’ve used real post,” Bellamy said. “Bribing his agent was fun, but we’ve just deprived another delivery person of their job.”

Adelaide sighed. “It’s too unreliable. Because of the cutbacks, of course. Twenty years ago, mail was the only completely reliable service in the world.” She stared wistfully into space the same way a crotchety old man remembering the Good Olde Days of Whisky in the Office might.

“Ugh,” said Bellamy. “I’m bored.”

“That’s all you young ones,” Leslie said. “Just slow down. He’ll call.”

Bellamy rolled their eyes and folded their arms. Leslie was privately incredibly glad he had never had babies, because babies became children, who became this.

The phone rang.

“Oh! Oooh!” Leslie yelped, jumping out of his seat. “Who’s answering?”

“You, remember? Go on! Answer it!” Adelaide demanded.

Leslie picked up the phone with shaking hands. He reminded himself to breathe, and sound confident, like a real criminal. He pressed the answer button.

“Hello?” he said.

The line was dead. 

“Wait - what?” He looked at the phone. “I pressed the button with the little phone on it!” 

The other two looked just as puzzled. Adelaide peered at it for a while, and then let out a gasp. “Those bastards, look, there’s another button with a little phone on it! And that one is green. It must be that one.”

“Ohhhh, well. That’s just - that’s cruel. Now we have to wait for him to ring again.” Leslie sighed, deeply disappointed.

The phone rang, and he jumped again, just a little. He pressed the  _ green _ button with the little phone on it, and held the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“Hello, this is Adam. What do you want?”

“I can’t hear you, speak up.”

“TURN YOUR PHONE ONTO SPEAKER.”

“I KNOW YOU’RE SPEAKING, IDIOT.” A very quiet curse sounded from the other end. Leslie looked at the phone. “What button do you think I should press?” he asked the others. 

“THE SPEAKER BUTTON.”

“Look, there’s a button there, with a little phone on it,” Bellamy pointed out. It was red.

“Last time I pressed a red button, it hung up.”

“That was while it was  _ ringing, _ genius. It’s obviously different now.”

“NO-”

Leslie pressed the button. A beep sounded, and Adam’s voice stopped entirely. 

“You just hung up again,” Adelaide said. “Wait until he calls again, and try a different one?”

The phone rang, and Leslie confidently pressed the green phone button.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “I’m going to try pressing a different button.”

“IT’LL LOOK LIKE A SPEAKER.”

He squinted at the phone. The red one - no, he had already tried that. There was a little button beneath it, with a little triangley thing with curvy lines coming off it. He pressed it.

“CAN YOU HEAR ME YET? IT’LL LOOK LIKE-”

“No need to shout!” he said, holding the phone away from his ear. “I can hear you alright.”

“Fucking finally.”

“And there’s no need for that kind of language!”  _ Bloody Gen Z. _

“Look, you’re the blackmailers, so just tell me what you want.”

Leslie scrambled around for the piece of paper they had written their demands on. “Yes, just, give me a minute…”

“What, you going to put me on hold?”

“Look, we  _ will _ release everything we know if you don’t cooperate.”

“... Yeah. Right. Okay.”

“Okay. We want you to get in touch with your friend, Anathema Device. We know she has The Real Prophecies, and we want you to change them.”

“How - how do you know about that?” The boy’s voice was shaky now. “I can’t change them.”

“Yes you can,” Leslie said patiently. “We want you to change the one about the Webbe that Stretches o’er the World.” Silence. “Hello?”

“I - look, that’s really wrong. Do you have any idea what sort of -”

“Do you want us to release your information, or not?”

“I don’t think you understand, mate, the prophecies have to stay intact!”

Leslie pinched the bridge of his nose. “All you have to do is change the word  _ aide _ to  _ downfall, _ and  _ not _ to  _ rot. _ ” 

“I… Isn’t there something else I can do?”

“No. Change the prophecies.”

Leslie heard him sigh. He let the silence after that draw on for a few moments.

“Fucking - fine. Fine!”

Leslie grinned, and pressed the hangup button. Technology wasn’t so hard, once you got used to it.

**A Small Yet Interesting Sushi Place, London** \- Next Week

“No, Aziraphale, I - I don’t think so,” Crowley said, surveying the sign. It was the lunchtime rush hour, but the Bentley had mysteriously managed to snag a park in central London. “I don’t do  _ sushi.” _

Aziraphale huffed, squaring his shoulders. “Crowley, you  _ promised. _ Anywhere I want.”

“Well, that’s because I thought you’d choose the Ritz!” 

Aziraphale frowned at him. “You promise to take me anywhere I want for lunch, and you think I’d choose a place we’ve been to at least a hundred times?” Traffic whizzed past the window, making the car jolt a little.

“Three hundred and ninety-four times, and yes! You love the Ritz!” Crowley was somewhat offended Aziraphale hadn’t been keeping track with the same diligence.

“I do, but I love taking a wide variety of samples from various cuisines and cultures more! This is an adventure, Crowley, I’ve only been here twice and that was ages ago.”

Crowley could sense he wasn’t going to win this argument.

“Oh, please?” Aziraphale asked, looking up at Crowley, blue eyes wide and intent.

Crowley’s mouth went dry for a moment. “I - fine. Fine!” He tried to muster up some frustration, which all seem to have disappeared. “I  _ refuse _ to eat whale, though.”

“Crowley, they haven’t served whale in England since the seventies,” Aziraphale said with an indulgent smile. “It’s illegal.”

“Oh,” said Crowley lamely. “All right then.” He opened his door (there just happened to be a pause in the traffic), and walked around the car. Aziraphale, however, remained in the car, fidgeting with his coat sleeves.

Crowley knocked on the car window. “Anytime this century?” he yelled.

Aziraphale jumped, and nodded, not making eye contact with Crowley. When he didn’t make any move to open the door, Crowley grasped the handle from the outside, opening the door for him.

“Oh, thank you,” Aziraphale said, beaming. Crowley felt a crease form between his eyes. He held out a hand to help Aziraphale up, who, blinking gratefully at him, took it.

Did he forget how to work a car door…? More than slightly worried for his friend’s sanity, Crowley made sure to open the restaurant door for him (“irasshai mase,” a cheerful waitress called), and pull out his chair at the counter. Aziraphale kept smiling at him, face a little flushed.

Crowley looked away, slinging an arm over the back of his chair. The waitress approached. “Onomi mono wa ika ga itashimasu ka?” she addressed them. Aziraphale looked at Crowley, an eyebrow raised.

“Erm,” said Crowley.

“Oh! She’s asking if we want anything to drink, dear. Need to brush up on the Japanese, do we?” 

Crowley glared at his companion. It wasn’t  _ his _ fault Japan had shut itself off for all those years. After that, he just hadn’t felt much like travelling. Aziraphale, on the other hand, made a point of visiting each year. 

After a pause, Aziraphale rested a hand on his arm. “I know just what you’ll like,” he smiled.

The shochu arrived within a minute, oolong tea accompanying it. Aziraphale, first taking the time to smile at and thank the waitress (how there could be so many syllables in a language for  _ thanks, _ Crowley had no idea), leaned in to sniff the aroma. 

“Oolong has such a particular scent,” he murmured. “Don’t you think?”

Crowley reluctantly emerged from his slouch, leaning forwards to sample the scent. “It - well, it’s tea.”

Aziraphale just waved an airy hand in his direction. “If it takes me another six thousand years, I  _ will _ get you to appreciate the finer things in life.”

“I do appreciate them! I challenge you to name a single type of car,” he said defensively. “And it  _ can’t  _ be a Bentley,” he added upon seeing Aziraphale open his mouth.

“I, er… well. A… a… a  _ little _ car?” he asked tentatively.

Crowley scoffed.However, Aziraphale did not look very put out.

“Alright then, I can’t,” he said. “I suppose you’re right. Food, cars… oh, but you’re not. Food is an essential part of human life. It’s an  _ art.” _

Crowley gestured to the traffic outside. “And cars aren’t?”

Aziraphale followed his gaze, turning around to the back of his seat. “But I  _ like _ food,” he said desperately, with the tone of an angel who has lost any hope of winning an argument and now is trying to prolong the loss.

“Oh, you sap,” Crowley said, turning away from Aziraphale.

“You know what,” Aziraphale said. “I think  _ you’re _ a sap.”

Sixteen years ago, Crowley would have seized the collar of his coat, slammed him into whatever surface was nearest, and demanded that he -

It was 2035, and Crowley was eternally damned. He shook the image out of his head instead, and made a face at Aziraphale. It’d have to do.

The shochu and tea was, to Crowley’s shock, really fucking good. He’d tried to hide this from Aziraphale by refilling his glass with demonic miracles whenever the angel wasn’t looking, but from Aziraphale’s increasingly self-satisfied expression, his dastardly plot was thus far unsuccessful.

Aziraphale had told the staff to bring them whatever the chef recommended, as well as something for Crowley, apparently. Crowley, who admittedly had not been able to read the menu, was very suspicious of what the chef might recommend. He couldn’t imagine why, after Aziraphale had given humankind a literal flaming sword (without taxes or added fees), they would resort to eating raw food.

Still. Aziraphale knew him. He would have made sure no raw food was ordered - he must remember The Tartare Incident of 1894[8]. It still made Crowley shudder to think about.

“What’s this?” Crowley asked once the waitress had bowed and disappeared.

“Kappa maki,” Aziraphale said. “I thought I’d start you off fairly tame.”

“Aziraphale… This is… It’s not…?”

Aziraphale, who was now chewing into something yellow and rubbery with an expression of ultimate bliss, raised an eyebrow. He held up a finger, chewing, then swallowed.

“What, my dear?”

“Raw fish?”

Aziraphale’s expression flickered from incredulity, to hurt, to patience. “Crowley,” he said reproachfully. “I’m not an idiot. It’s seaweed, rice, and cucumber.”

Crowley looked at the little rolls in front of him. “Hmm.”

“Have some soy sauce.” Aziraphale passed him the little jug. Crowley resigned himself to his fate, and picked up the sushi roll. He stared at it, the cucumber glistening threateningly under the restaurant lights. He put it in his mouth, blowing out his cheeks to minimize the area of his mouth in contact with the foreign food.

Aziraphale paused from his yellow - thing - to watch Crowley try to accomplish the invincible task of chewing without tasting. 

“You don’t  _ have _ to eat it, you know,” he said.

“But you’ll be disappointed if I don’t,” Crowley pointed out. “Fuck!” The sushi had fallen onto his tongue as he spoke. Committing to the mouthful, he quickly chewed and swallowed. 

The taste filtered through. It tasted like rice - slightly different rice, though, was that some kind of vinegar? - and very mild seaweed, and watery cucumber. It was - well, it was alright. A bit boring, actually. 

Aziraphale was smiling that evil little smile he had. “And?”

“Well, I, uh, erm, I-...” Aziraphale’s smile grew wider. “It’s alright. Bit boring, really. Can’t see what all the fuss is about.”

And that was definitely the wrong thing to say. Aziraphale’s hand shot into the air with a vengeance. “Sumimasen - er, sumimasen? Sumimasen!” 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley hissed. “I’m not sure -”

But it was too late for him. The waitress had already materialized, noting down everything Aziraphale said. He was completely and utterly doomed. He would never be able to finish anything, and Aziraphale would insist on sitting there until they did, and meanwhile, the staff would bring them plate after plate after plate…

Which is pretty much what happened, except that Crowley found himself enjoying it all quite a lot. Aziraphale, in what he called ‘blind taste tests’, made Crowley shut his eyes while Aziraphale held food up for him to sample. Twice, Crowley felt Aziraphale’s finger brush against his lip.

Doomed. He was doomed.

**The Back Corner of the Sushi Restaurant, London** \- About Thirty Minutes Ago

Moggag (known as Mog to his friends, if he had any) was busy on a lurking mission. Officially, this was a Random Lurking Location. Unofficially, Mog had business here. Business in the form of a demon wearing sunglasses.

He squinted through the elegant red wood framework obscuring him from view. Crowley sat, slouched back in his seat like a cat that had fallen from cat-grace. Mog squinted harder, then un-squinted. It seemed to be hard to see if he squinted too much. Satan, but these human tendencies were hard to manage. It was like - like trying to manage all the demons of Hell, except all of them were clamouring about different demands, and they all hated each other. And Mog, apparently.

He couldn’t think of a single reason Crowley would want to be down here, why he’d want to leave Hell. He gazed at the demon as if his physical form would lend all the answers. Answers to questions like, how in Hell did a demon survive a bath of holy water?

Mog had theories, of course. A whole corkboard of them, with post-it notes, and little stickers that looked like golden stars (he had it on firm authority that the stickers were a sort of charm to be more productive). The best, at this point, were: a very sophisticated second skin-thing that looked exactly like Crowley, and could fool Beelzebub; a mass-organized conspiracy involving secret lizard-angels living in a separate heaven underneath Earth that Crowley reigned supreme over; or aid from the Antichrist.

Mog was gunning for the lizards, personally. 

He was shaken out of his obsession-lulled reverie by the sight of Crowley’s companion shouting something and waving his hand around. Aziraphale, a minor Principality. They seemed to go everywhere together. It was very strange - almost like the angel was in fact a deputy-lizard-angel of the most noble and scaliest rank. 

Mog watched them for another ten minutes. They both kept eating and eating. It was, frankly, disgusting. Mog didn’t know how either an angel or a demon could sully their immortal flesh with such readily-decaying matter. His attention and disgust was really peaked, though, when Aziraphale leaned over, his hand nearing Crowley’s mouth-

Mog could have vomited. The angel was  _ feeding _ Crowley. And they both looked bloody  _ ecstatic _ about it.

“You’ll pay,” he muttered. “You lizard angel consorts, you’ll pay for what you’ve done.”

**Outside the Sushi Restaurant, London** \- Whenever Crowley and Aziraphale Left It

Crowley took care to open the door for Aziraphale, for the third time that day. Like the other times, he seemed extremely happy about it. Crowley was loath to become a nice person, but when Aziraphale smiled like that it made his heart lift a little. It was selfish if he was only doing it to feel better about himself, right? Selfishness was good for a demon. Very acceptable. 

He was so caught up in musing about his own evilness that he didn’t notice Aziraphale had stopped walking. Crowley turned around, pulling his hands out of his pockets.

“You alright, angel?”

Aziraphale nodded. “More than, actually,” he offered with a little smile. “I just wanted to say thank you. Properly, you know.”

“What for?” 

“For coming with me today, of course! I know you were uncomfortable at the start, and you never would have gone there if it weren’t for me, and I do feel more than a little bad about that, so, thank you.”

Crowley stepped forwards, closing the distance between them. Aziraphale was looking anywhere but at him. “You’re feeling really guilty about this, aren’t you?”

Aziraphale, still avoiding his gaze, nodded. 

“Don’t,” Crowley said. He realized after a moment that the angel might need more reassurance than this one word. “I mean - you don’t have to. I had to try sushi some time.” He shrugged, trying to play it off as casual.

The way Aziraphale seemed to glow at his words was not casual. “Oh, Crowley,” he sighed. “I really do -”

Aziraphale’s phone rang.

“Oh,” the angel said. He pulled out the little black rectangle[9]. “Good afternoon, to whom am I speaking?”

Crowley, whose brand new Galaxy Note 20 Plus Multiply Fraction™ had blown up a few days ago[10], had no option at this point but to stick his hands back in his pockets and sort of mooch around aimlessly on the pavement.

“Yes,” said Aziraphale. “Yes. …Yes? Oh,  _ yes.  _ I see. Wait, you - you - oh my - Heaven above!”

Crowley winced. Aziraphale held out a pacifying hand towards him, mouthing ‘ _ sorry!’. _

“Right away. Absolutely. Yes, yes, yes.” Aziraphale lowered the phone from his ear.

“Crowley,” he breathed. “The prophecies.”

“The prophecies from sixteen years ago? What do you mean, angel?” Crowley asked impatiently.

Aziraphale started to glow faintly. “They’re  _ safe.” _

**[6] Tired servers have two distinct scents. It is a staggering coincidence that one scenario can be used to describe them. This scenario, which you must not try at home, now follows. **

** _Imagine your typical morning. You get out of bed, bump your head on the doorframe, and stagger to the kitchen. Fumbling around for square-shaped things, you seize upon what you think are pieces of bread. You plunk them into the toaster. While you wait, your arms stretch of their own accord, wafting the eau d’naturale of your armpits towards your nose [scent A]. Shaking your head, you resolve to shower once your head has been cleared. However, despite your efforts you feel a little dizzy. Fumes start to wind their way into your nose - not scents or smells but fumes. You peer down into the toaster, which now contains two partially-melted plastic container lids, smoking gently [scent B][7]._ **

**[7] It should be noted that the faint scent of tired computer servers is not as intense or as dangerous as scent B may lead you to believe.**

[return to text]

**[8] Crowley had gone through a rebellious phase in the 19th century, swearing to order his own meals even in Aziraphale’s company. He had thought the only dish with ‘steak’ in the title was a safe enough bet for him, ignoring his friend’s worried glance. He knew he was done for when the raw meat and egg patty arrived but refused to show any weakness of resolve. He couldn’t! Not when he had been so stubborn on making his own food choices. **

**It may be of interest for the reader to know that when demons throw up, they lose control. Not only over themselves, but of the physical reality they assist in shaping. They had covered up the explosion with rumours about ** ** _l’anarchie. _ ** **The rancid mincemeat coating the street within a hundred metre radius, however, had been harder to explain away.**

[return to text]

**[9] Crowley had already had The Phone Argument with him several times (“It’s embarrassing, angel, it’s an iPhone! Does Apple even exist anymore?”). Despite his efforts, Azira-‘it still works’-'and you were the one who bought it for me, anyway!'-phale had won. Crowley had made a mental note to break the dastardly iPhone at the earliest opportunity.**

[return to text]

**[10] The exploding phones had been Crowley’s idea, all the way back in 2016. He took great pleasure in how long the flaw had propagated through phone designs, except for when he wanted to play Fortnite Remastered. **

[return to text]


	5. One Basket

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my glorious beta, [WanderingSilvan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderingsilvan/pseuds/Wanderingsilvan). Things are about to get chaotic now >:D
> 
> If you're enjoying this, please consider leaving a comment, I'd really appreciate the inspiration <3 much love!

**A Mayfair Mail Depot, London** \- A Car Ride Later

If you have not, in fact, been living beneath a rock for the duration of your life, you will have noticed the steady decline in usage of postal services. This is not because of a lack of work ethic on the delivery people’s behalf, nor any large-scale corruption within the industry. It is because, as they[11] say,  _ ch-ch-ch-ch-changes. _

The world does not stand still, and neither does the post. Instead, it (the post, not the world) is attached to machines of varying colours of M&M, who then deliver it to the recipient. The machines are known as Zoomies™, and they have become the fundamental divider of humanity.

For the younger generations, Zoomies have become a staple of life. Whether a toddler prising open one of the small wheeled robots, or an ambitious geology student lassoing a drone out of the sky, all can bond over the need to destroy Zoomies. Something about the bright, unmarred plastic screams  _ crack me _ ; or is it in the smooth mechanical whizz of their motions? Youngsters are drawn to Zoomies like moths to a flame[12].

The older generations relished the introduction of Zoomies nearly as much as the young, but only for the reason that it gave them something to complain about. 

For Crowley and Aziraphale, Zoomies held about as much relevance as did the introduction of video streaming services; they lessened the amount of time required to complete a task. This is one of the levels on which immortals find it hard to relate to humans. Even Crowley, who had sat through the  _ whole  _ of the fourteenth century, didn’t mind writing down letters and walking to the post office to send them off. What was half an hour out of six millennia?

Crowley’s opinion on Zoomies, though, had just skyrocketed.

“We weren’t home,” Aziraphale was explaining for the seventeenth time. “It would have arrived  _ sometime _ today.”

Crowley had never realized the post could go so horribly, horribly wrong. Since the introduction of Zoomies, the law required any sort of delivery service to use live facial recognition to ensure the proper person received the proper delivery. This had made it illegal for the usual delivery services to just leave letters in a mailbox as they might have once done, requiring instead that they verify the recipient with an appropriate legal identification.

It was no wonder no one used the bloody post anymore. No one, apart from whoever had sent them the mysteriously-intact prophecies.

“I’ll have a look through now, love,” the man behind the counter said. “Sit tight.”

“Oh, thank you,” Aziraphale said earnestly. He returned to the seat next to Crowley.

The seats weren’t as hard on the buttocks as horses, but they were coming close. Nasty grey plastic jobs. Crowley was sitting on a half-crossed leg in an effort to be comfortable.

“Well, he seemed more competent than the last four people,” Aziraphale said. “I do hope they’re alright. Most peculiar, to disappear out the back like that, and never come back.”

“They’re probably getting fired, or rage quitting.  _ I _ would.”

Aziraphale looked like he wanted to disagree, but couldn’t quite bring himself to. “It can’t be an ideal work environment,” he admitted.

“You can say that again,” Crowley said, prodding his rock-hard chair.

Aziraphale followed his gaze, and suddenly, the chairs became a soft woven material, luxuriously padded in all the right places. It didn’t even matter that they were tartan - Crowley sank down onto his with a sigh.

“Fuck, I love you, angel,” he groaned, letting himself slouch down just the right amount that it would’ve given any mortal terrible back problems.

He was so absorbed in sprawling over the newly-comfortable surface that he didn’t realize his companion had gone silent until a few seconds later. He looked over to find Aziraphale completely absorbed in the blank wall at his eye level, cheeks flushed a deep red.

Then it clicked.

Oh  _ fuck, _ he’d said - he’d crossed Boundaries. Sixteen years of carefully towing the line, of stepping back after saying goodnight, diverting precarious conversations, and he had to blurt it out like  _ that? _

He opened his mouth to say something, say anything, not to take it back because he didn’t think he  _ could _ because it was  _ true _ after all but it didn’t have to be in any sort of way they’d been friends six thousand years and you loved each other after a time like that especially after-

“I love you too,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley’s brain stopped. He stared into Aziraphale’s eyes, which had turned upon him, and which were bright as headlights, blinding blue freezing him there. 

“Erm,” he got out. The silence stretched, and stretched, the same way that cheese on pizza should but sometimes doesn’t.

“Letter for a Mr. A. Z. Fell?” someone called from very far away. Crowley realized his mouth was still hanging open, and closed it quickly. Aziraphale closed his eyes, releasing Crowley from his sudden and intense hypnosis. He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or bone-achingly, mind-shatteringly, heart-ripping-in-two-ly disappointed.

“That’s me,” Aziraphale was saying, getting up from his chair (which he hadn’t bothered to miracle comfortable). “You found it, then? Not too much trouble, I hope?”

Crowley slouched lower, wondering if Aziraphale’s chair could ever just entirely absorb him.

“It was the strangest thing,” said the man. “I was just walking down the hallway, and it came out of nowhere - must have been sucked into the air vent, or something. Almost knocked me out, I can tell you.”

Crowley’s backside, in fact, was very nearly off the chair.

“Oh - oh dear, are you alright?”

Perhaps slouching wasn’t the best coping mechanism to utilize at this point.

“I’m fine, dear, but thanks for asking.” The man leaned across the counter and patted Aziraphale’s hand.

Crowley, who was suddenly on his feet, felt a fierce heat sear through his stomach. 

“Got it? Come on, then,” he said to Aziraphale, quite deliberately not addressing the bad hand-patting man.

“Oh - yes, yes. Thank you  _ so _ much for your trouble,” Aziraphale said to the terrible, evil man.

“No problem at all,” the Absolute Asshole smiled.

Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s hand, not able to think past the urge to  _ punch that guy _ and entirely aware that it was completely unreasonable, and towed the angel outside.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale admonished once they were on the street. “That poor man was injured trying to help us.”

“He got hit in the head by a letter,” Crowley said. “He’ll be fine.”

“Yes, well, there was no need to be rude.” Crowley was suddenly under a heavenly-blue gaze again for the second time in as many minutes, but with a different weight this time. He felt a cold guilt starting to replace the heat in his abdomen.

“I know,” he said, tearing his eyes away from Aziraphale, and shoving his hands into his pockets.  _ He called you  _ dear, _ and _ love,  _ and I’ve never been brave enough to use either of those. _ Crowley hated himself for his own cowardice. If some Man Behind A Counter could say them so easily, and -

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, looking down at the letter. It was aged, and weathered, which made the ballpoint pen scrawl stand out even more. “This will be good. I have an excellent feeling about this, Crowley."

There seemed to be a pit of snakes slithering around Crowley's stomach.  _ Coward, _ they hissed.  _ Chicken. _ He felt like telling the little voice that snakes could eat chickens. Not that that would prove anything, except for how unfussy snakes had been forced to become after humanity destroyed most of their habitat.

"Yeah," he said. "Right."

"Crowley?" Why did he have to have those eyes? It would be so much easier without the sky looking up at him out of Aziraphale's face. "What were you saying, before?"

Aziraphale's coat was being buffeted around by the wind. Crowley could see his hand gripping the prophecies inside the miraculously deep pockets. The angel's shined leather shoes were shifting around nervously. This wasn't how it should be. Not good enough.  _ It'll never be good enough, _ something hissed inside his head.  _ You'll never be - _

Crowley throttled the snakes inside him and said, "Nothing."

Aziraphale studied him for a long moment. "Alright."

And that was that.

“So, er, prophecies…?”

“Yes! Right. Prophecies. Gosh, it’s nearly dinnertime, isn’t it?”

Crowley allowed himself a grin. “Bit peckish, are we?”

“Well, now, just a little… Hmmm. Fancy some Indian?”

“Lead the way, angel.”

And so it was after some extremely hot Lamb Korma and a mild and fragrant Malai Kofta that Crowley and Aziraphale examined the prophecies. They took turns reading them out to each other, debating on whether it had already happened, and sorting them into piles of “boring”, “interesting”, and “actually useful”.

“The Noble Delivery Officers shall make a Greate Comebacketh,” Crowley frowned, “Is that even a word?”

“She must have been having an off day, poor dear,” Aziraphale said. He took the strip of paper from Crowley. “It is a bit strange they’ve all been typed up, isn’t it?”

“She probably got some printing service to do them,” Crowley said glumly. “And told them their life’s fortune just to get this to us.”

Aziraphale took the next prophecy with a gloved hand[13].

“The Webbe that stretches o’er the Worlde will be of your greatest Downfall. Tamper not - oh no, sorry, that’s rot, gosh, it’s hard to read when it’s smudged like that!” Aziraphale squinted at the offending paper, adjusting his spectacles. “Tamper rot with the Disappointing Spawne, and his Logges of Moving Pictures.”

“What the fuck?”

“Adam? Is he a  _ Disappointing Spawne _ ?”

“Must be.” Crowley scrunched up his nose. “Say that again, angel.”

Aziraphale repeated it. “Something about the internet, isn’t it?” Aziraphale commented intelligently. 

“Well, duh.”

“Moving Pictures - films. But Adam doesn’t make films, he’s just a - what do you call it, dear?”

“A YouTuber,” Crowley replied nonchalantly. Then his head jerked, and he grabbed excitedly at Aziraphale’s hand. “A YouTuber! He makes logs of moving pictures, alright, he’s got a channel!”

“And - and - and we’ve got to  _ tamper rot _ with it?”

“Give that to me, angel.” Crowley beckoned with one hand, the other - oh. The other was holding Aziraphale’s. Quite tightly, too.

“Angel?”

“Oh, yes, yes, I - yes, here you are.” Aziraphale passed the prophecy over, trying not to look at their joined hands too obviously.

Crowley scanned the little piece of paper, frowning and muttering. “Tamper rot… Tamper rot… I mean, it  _ sounds _ like…”

“Mmm?” Aziraphale chanced it and flipped his hand over to hold Crowley’s. It made him feel somehow gooey and frozen inside at the same time.

“It sounds, angel,” Crowley grinned at him, “like we’ve got a YouTuber to take down.”

**The Internet ** \- Just Now

Comments on: “Teaching my old dog a new trick”, by  _ AdamTheYoung _

[-] ajcrowley: did you get your dog from a kill-free shelter? asking for a friend

> useruno: pc bullshit
> 
> A.Z. Fell: While I agree that computers can be frustrating, there is no need for that kind of language.

“Angel,” Crowley sighed. “We’re trying to ruin Adam’s reputation. Focus.”

> useruno: fuck off
> 
> ajcrowley: YOU fuck off

“Right. Time to get off that thread. What else would be utterly destructive?”

[-] ajcrowley: I SAW ADAM PUNCH HIS DOG IRL ONCE

> MissP: WHAT NO
> 
> 1970gui: pics or it didn’t happen
> 
> AdamTheOld: he would NEVER
> 
> ajcrowley: then how do you explain this: the dog’s left ear is slightly dented.

[-] MissP, lavellTon, feckbrain, uwu_owo, and forty-three other users:  _ unsubscribed _

“What’s ‘unsubscribed’?” Aziraphale asked. If it were possible for angels to get mortal headaches, his temples would be twinging uncomfortable.

Crowley sighed. “It’s - well - I - it’s good, it means they believe us.”

“Oh! Oh, well done, Crowley! Let me try now.” Aziraphale peered at his phone screen. “Now, how do I…?”

[-] A. Z. Fell: A little bird whispered in my ear that Adam watches Pornography.

Oh, that was very good. Aziraphale was sure it would inspire a mass exodus. He watched the comment thread eagerly.

> loveyou3000: lol wow scandalous

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked. “What’s ‘lol’?”

Crowley’s head fell back, exposing his long pale neck, Aziraphale’s mouth tingling oddly.

“Angel,” Crowley groaned. “This is hopeless. Well, you’re hopeless. Just - let me do it.”

Aziraphale watched Crowley’s hand wave through the air, fingers tracing nonchalant patterns like smoke. He sat up from where he had been propped on the grass.

“Fine,” he said, and took the bowl of grapes into his lap.

The day was fine, a light breeze spinning the air around them, the sky a gentle blue. Aziraphale let himself lie back down, popping a grape into his mouth when the inclination so came, and basked in the sunlight. All was peaceful, even Crowley tapping at his phone falling into a calm sort of rhythm.

**Nearby** \- Just Then

Bethor hated Earth. She really, really hated it. Here she was, lying in the dank earth beneath some bush, something hard poking into her back, spying on traitors. She could be back in Heaven, giving herself over to the burn of eternal training.

And she really should be.

But Bethor was curious. It was a terrible thing for an angel to be and the Fallen proved that. She had been so scared that day, certain that the ground would drop open beneath her feet, that she'd be dragged down to the pit of Hell. 

But for whatever reason, the Almighty had allowed her to stay.

And it wasn't like she would Fall for this, she reasoned. She was trying to help Heaven! Aziraphale had betrayed them all, had become something unknown and terrible, and refused to fight for them.

She had been there, that day.

It had been a weird kind of shuffle that spread through the ranks. As Aziraphale had stood up to the Quartermaster... the power had shifted. Bethor had tasted it in the air. And that eternal twinge inside her, the switch, it had flicked.

God forgive her, but she had to know how Aziraphale had pulled off the Hellfire. 

She squinted through the leaves at the strange pair. The demon, dressed in black like the Foul Fiend he was, was looking at a little black square.  _ Gone native. _ The angel (if he was still an angel) was lying back on the grass, eating grapes.

_ Hedonist. _

And then - Bethor gagged - the demon Crowley began to feed Aziraphale. Strange how that made the air around them change. It was - no. It couldn't be.

Crowley was a demon, and Aziraphale was an angel. They were inherent enemies; they shouldn't be able to relax in each other's company, much less touch each other, feed each other. Yet the warm feeling in the air persisted. Birds twittered happily in the trees, rustling the leaves. All of God's creation could feel it, apparently. A blossom fell from a tree onto their tartan picnic blanket. 

Bethor gave it a death glare. She was struggling with the effort not to smite them on the spot. It wasn't right, it wasn't anything as the way it should be, it was  _ true love _ and it filled the air with a horrible sort of smug righteousness.

Bethor was still sulking amidst the general aura of the traitors’ happiness when a sulfuric smell manifested. Bethor flared her nostrils, peering at Crowley. Was he about to attack Aziraphale? Honestly, that would make this whole thing a lot more normal.

"Freeze," a voice said behind her.

Bethor flipped onto her belly, ignoring the instruction. The man - the  _ thing _ that had spoken… He was a demon. A very short, squat demon, wearing a bright orange reflective sort of overall that made Bethor have to squint at him.

"Begone, you fiend," she hissed.

" _ You _ begone. What are you doing, anyway?" the demon asked.

She frowned. "Heavenly quests are not for you to question, you evil -"

"Are you spying too?"

She did freeze then. "How did you know that?" Demons were supposed to be  _ stupid. _

"Well. I'm spying on Crowley. He's not being very interesting so far, just doing all this boring eating and seducing that angel and stuff."

"Seducing?" Bethor laughed. "He's not being seductive, demon, he's  _ smitten _ . In love, if that’s what you can call it."

The demon's eyes widened in shock. "The bloody traitor, Satan below, I don't believe it. I ought to go out there and -"

"No!" Bethor said a little too loudly. They both froze, checking that their targets hadn't noticed before carrying on. "No, I need to get more information."

The demon grunted in agreement. "No point in putting them on trial again if they just bloody escape it every time. Bastards."

Bethor looked at the demon appraisingly. "You got any information on the trial?" she asked.

His eyes flicked up to hers. "Which one?"

"Either. They worked together, but God only knows how," she said. 

The demon winced at the G-word. "Ugh. I don't know how the fuck Crowley did it," he said. "Nor the angel. Hell thinks they've become something other than angel and demon."

"That was Heaven's theory too," Bethor said slowly. "But that's no real explanation."

They looked at each other. An unspoken flicker of something passed between them.

"Bethor," she offered.

"Moggag," the demon said, narrowing his eyes. "Why do you want to know?"

"Maybe we can help each other," Bethor said.

Moggag didn't let his eyes stray from her. "What could you possibly have to offer me,  _ angel _ ?"

Bethor raised her eyebrows. "I've been spying on them for years."

"As have I."

Another exchange of eyes. "Let's talk about this somewhere we won't be interrupted then," Bethor said, jerking her head to the targets.

Moggag nodded, grabbed her arm before she could protest, and snapped his fingers.

Crowley wasn’t sure how long he’d been feeding Aziraphale. Ten minutes, maybe? An hour? He only knew that as the bowl of grapes depleted, he took more and more care with them. It wouldn't do to choke the angel, after all. 

_ Don't let them fall straight into his mouth; place one, gently, on his tongue. Let your finger stay there, just for a little while. Fetch the next grape; slowly, slowly; and repeat. _

Crowley was thankful his sunglasses were on, that Aziraphale couldn't see his eyes. They must be pools of love and adoration right now, and Crowley didn't want his angel to drown.

He was down to the last ten grapes when his phone buzzed. At first, Crowley ignored it, silencing it with a thought.

It didn't work.

The phone kept buzzing, long past the amount of time a phone ought to be able to ring for, and when there were only seven grapes, Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at him. "Aren't you going to get that?"

Crowley groaned, and fumbled for the source of the buzzing, turning away from Aziraphale. 

"What is it," he growled into his phone.

"I could ask you the same thing, Crowley. Why are you commenting on my videos?"

Crowley froze. "What?"

A tinny sigh sounded through the speaker. "Why. Are you. Commenting. On my videos."

"I'm not," he said.

"Right. Try again." Adam's voice was like ice.

Crowley felt his sleeve move, and looked down to see Aziraphale tugging at it, his eyes wide. He was mouthing something very fast, and very unintelligible. Crowley mouthed "can you repeat that?". Aziraphale frowned at him.

"Is Aziraphale with you?" Adam asked. 

"Uhhh," said Crowley, "... n-yes?" He changed his answer at the last second as Aziraphale nodded exaggeratedly.

"Can I talk to him, then?"

Crowley passed the phone over.

"Adam! A pleasure to hear from you, as always. How are you? Keeping those old powers in check?" Aziraphale babbled. Crowley let his head fall into his hands - it was easier to hide from the secondhand embarrassment that way.

"I might have expected this sort of behaviour from Crowley, but not from you." 

Aziraphale's face fell so hard Crowley was worried it might never be the same. "I'm sorry," Aziraphale said quietly. "We're sorry."

"Why is everyone suddenly so invested in ruining my career?" Adam asked, his voice sounding strangled. 

"It's nothing to do with you, dear," Aziraphale said. "Look, the truth is -"

"It’s those fucking prophecies, isn’t it? Well, good luck with that. Your accounts are both suspended indefinitely." 

The phone beeped.

"Adam?" Aziraphale tried.

Crowley sighed. "We're shit godfathers, aren't we."

"Well," said Aziraphale, "Yes."

**[REDACTED] ** \- [REDACTED]

“Do you know what a YouTube is?” Moggag asked.

The angel stuck her nose in the air. “It’s a place in the Interweb,” she told him proudly, “which is the place where all the young mortals live.”

Moggag took a moment to process this. “You mean all the young ones live separately? They didn’t used to do that, did they?”

Bethor’s mouth turned into the shape that Moggag’s usually did when he entered Duke Hastur’s presence. Satan, but that demon smelt bad.

“I’m not sure.”

Now, that was a surprise. In the half hour they had been talking, Bethor had subtly implied the nature of her own genius no less than fifteen times. 

“You mean there’s something you  _ don’t _ know?” Moggag asked. 

Bethor’s nostrils flared, and her cheeks began to glow. Not flushed red, like humans did - some kind of Divine Light was gathering about her face. Moggag winced.

“Stop that,” he muttered.

She rolled her eyes at him, but the light stopped. “It’s not  _ my _ problem if it hurts you. I shouldn’t have to restrain my Divine Energies for anything, and certainly not such a debased creature as yourself.”

Moggag grinned. “But you need me.”

Her scowl deepened. “That remains to be seen. What intelligence have you gathered then, you fiend?”

“Well… I learnt what sushi is.”

_ “Relevant _ intelligence, demon.”

Moggag raised his eyebrows. “They were eating it, and I think that is highly relevant because it’s disgusting.”

“Have they said anything  _ important?” _ Bethor asked, flicking her golden hair over a shoulder dramatically. “Anything about the prophecies?”

“Nothing that you didn’t hear,” he admitted, “Though they  _ did _ prove many times how impossibly obsessed they are with each other.”

“I told you, they’re in  _ love _ ,” Bethor said, sticking her tongue out as she said it, as if she hoped the words wouldn’t have to come from her if she tried hard enough.

“Demons don’t love.”

“Well,” Bethor said, “This one does.”

“No, you don’t understand, we physically - we just can’t.”

“I’m only telling you what I sensed! Why would I lie?”

Moggag stared at her, a strange slimy feeling building in his gut. He didn’t know how to explain it properly - he’d never been much good with using words and much less with understanding what his emotions were doing. 

Demons  _ couldn’t _ love. They didn’t have any of their Grace left to give, not in the way the concept of love required. He could feel the emptiness even after all these years, the sucking feeling of loss and damnation, the unforgivable pit always pulling at him. 

“There’s got to be another explanation,” Moggag insisted. “He could have been tricking you! I still think he was probably seducing the angel, you know, he was  _ the snake, _ he’s good at tempting - or - or, I don’t know, the angel gave him some of his own Grace.”

Bethor jumped. “That’s it!”

“What?”

“The angel must have - they’ve figured out how to - to  _ share _ one being’s Grace.”

Moggag, despite being the one who came up with the idea, didn’t buy it. “That’s impossible.”

“What other explanation do you have, then?” Bethor demanded. “If you say demons can’t love, then Crowley can’t be entirely demonic.”

“You’ve - you’ve got to shut up,” Moggag managed, breathing coming fast despite himself. “Do you  _ know _ how many demons - if they heard that - it’d be -”

“What?”

Did she not understand? “If demons can become - become angels again…”

“Who said they could?”

Moggag closed his eyes. “You don’t get it. No one  _ wants _ to be in Hell. The day we Fell was the worst fucking day of our lives, and if there was a way to reverse it, even a little bit, just a tiny bit…”

“You’d want in,” Bethor said. “You want to be  _ forgiven.” _

“Yes,” Moggag breathed, opening his eyes again. “We really can’t talk about this. Ever.”

“We’ve got to do something,” Bethor said. She was pacing the container. “We have to take this higher.”

“No,” Moggag said, running a hand through his hand, standing up and matching her steps around the small space. “No, we can’t. The demons would -”

“Not to Hell.”

Moggag spun around to face the angel. “Don’t you dare!”

But the angel straightened up, smirked, and disappeared Up in a flash of blue light.

“Oh, fuckity fuckballs,” Moggag groaned. “I hate my life.”

**Heaven** \- Thirty Minutes Later, insofar as Heaven has a Concept of Time

Bethor had made her report in the most inarticulate jumble of words she has ever spoken. It wasn’t every day that a common third-and-a-bit-sphere angel like her got the chance to actually, really, truly report something  _ new. _

Of course, as soon as she had said her piece, she’d been politely but firmly shunted from the room with not so much as a ‘bye-bye’. 

She wondered what they might do with the information. Would they use it to their advantage somehow? Consign a million demons desperate for a shred of Grace to their armies? Moggag wouldn’t like that, Bethor thought.

_ Who cares what Moggag thinks? _

She quickly rearranged her thoughts back to her Heavenly duties, and the angels in the boardroom[14].

She was broken out of her bored reverie by a loud whine, followed by crackling noises.

_ HELLO, _ a voice boomed.  _ TESTING TESTING ONE TWO THREE. _ Bethor covered her ears, flushed, and uncovered them. A few years on earth and human gestures had really started to rub off on her.

_ Don’t shout, _ said a cool female voice.  _ They can hear you fine. _

_ Alright, alright. _ Now that the volume was reasonable, Bethor recognized the voice as Gabriel’s.  _ We have a very important announcement to make. You might remember that FIEND Aziraphale and his even FIENDIER demon charge Crowley. We have reason to believe that the… the webs…  _

Rustling noises crackled through the speaker for a few moments. 

_ Ah, yes. They are polluting the interwebs. As a result, the webs will become… weaker… or stronger… the webs will… Well, the point is, whatever those two are doing, it’s BAD. _

Bethor wished he’d stop shouting all the Evil words.

_ And we are going to STOP THEM. So if all of you could… You’ll need… A DESKTOP or a MOBILE. And an INTERWEB. _

_ That says ‘internet connection’,  _ Michael’s voice pointed out.

_ An INTERNET CONNECTION. And then you need to go to the YOU TUBES, the Y-O-U TUBES. And slide down them, or something. _

_ Make an account, _ Michael said, her tone like a thousand stars that were very tired of being stars.

_ Make an ACCOUNT. Got that, angels? Keep working hard. Hardly working will result in being thrown to the bottomless pit. Too blessed to be stressed, am I right? Divinely Yours, the Archangel Gabriel. JD, MD, PhD, MPH, MBA, M.Div.  _

And with another whine, the announcement is over, and ten million angels are let loose on the internet.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**[11] They, in this case, being David Bowie.**

[return to text]

**[12] This metaphor is particularly accurate as a significant number of fatalities occur in both cases.**

[return to text]

**[13] Precautions, no matter how recently printed the prophecies looked, had to be taken.**

[return to text]

**[14] If you can call a convenient little pocket dimension procured mostly for Gabriel and Michael’s gossiping a boardroom.**

[return to text]


	6. Webs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my glorious beta, [WanderingSilvan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderingsilvan/pseuds/Wanderingsilvan).
> 
> I know some you will get these references, but if you don't, never fear! I've linked to all the videos I mention in the text, apart from the Build The Wall one, because I can't really can't bring myself to spread that any further than it has to go. I may or may not have found a new love in tiny food videos, they are just so fucking adorable.
> 
> Thank you also to the Good Omens Big Bang writers on discord for helping me brainstorm the aforementioned internet things, and just generally being lovely, supportive people.
> 
> I hope you like this, and if you do, please let me know! Comments and kudos always make me very happy. Thanks, and stay awesome, everyone. <3

**AdamTheYoung posted: ** ** _Wake Up, Globeheads_ **

[-] BarryBarryNice: Another delightful myriad of irony and nostalgia. This takes me back to 2022!

> 123456789TEN_DUEL_COMMANDMENTS:  those were the days. Y E E T for the 20s
> 
> The Angel Sandalphon:  H A I L M A R Y M O T H E R O F G O D
> 
> creep3r:  lol what

[-] Rev. Johnson: _After this I saw four angels standing at the four corners of the earth, holding back the four winds of the earth, that no wind might blow on earth or sea or against any tree._ Revelation 7:1.

> you_lost_the_game:  and???
> 
> J Cho:  how can the earth have for corners if it’s round ? fake science
> 
> I’m a train:  the bible is a shit place to get your science from j saying
> 
> The Archangel Gabriel. JD, MD, PhD, MPH, MBA, M.Div.:  The Bible was marred by those of you who translated it directly from Angelspeak. Has it occurred to you that spheres have not only four corners, but five? The spatial implications are astonishing, I assure you. Divinely Yours, the Archangel Gabriel. JD, MD, PhD, MPH, MBA, M.Div. 
> 
> po tay toe:  I’m WHEEZING

**AdamTheYoung posted: ** ** _I was KIDNAPPED!!!_ **

[-]  Fury7:  Clickbait.

> Jackson T:  the best kind, tho. his dog is so cute uwu
> 
> The Angel Michael:  I had to look up this term. Please try to use understandable human english in the future.

[-]  The Angel Haniel:  The Hellhound doesn’t look as evil as expected.

> The Angel Uriel:  Lucifer always did have a flair for the unexpected.
> 
> The Archangel Gabriel. JD, MD, PhD, MPH, MBA, M.Div.:  I’ve seen Hellhounds, and that is not one. Divinely Yours, the Archangel Gabriel. JD, MD, PhD, MPH, MBA, M.Div. 
> 
> ajcrowley:  stop signing your name
> 
> The Archangel Gabriel. JD, MD, PhD, MPH, MBA, M.Div.:  No. Divinely Yours, the Archangel Gabriel. JD, MD, PhD, MPH, MBA, M.Div. 

**Head Office of Youtube, San Bruno, California** \- The Day After the Angels all got Youtube

Suyin sighed and bit her lip, scrolling down the page.

_ Account Created - The Angel Boel _

_ Account Created - The Angel Zachriel _

_ Account Created - The Angel Vequaniel _

_ Account Created - The Angel Zagelzagel _

_ Account Created - StickManTheThird _

_ Account Created - The Cherubim Rūḥ, Bearer of the Throne _

_ Account Created - The Angel Adoel _

_ Account Created - The Angel Camiel _

_ Account Created - The Angel Germael _

_ Account Created - The Angel Ramiel _

_ Account Created - The Angel Sabrathan _

_ Account Created - The Angel Araquiel _

_ Account Created - The Angel Gagiel _

_ Account Created - The Angel Zarall _

_ Account Created - The Angel Valoel _

_ Account Created - wit_beyond_measure _

_ Account Created - The Angel Chasan _

_ Account Created - The Angel Boel _

_ Account Created - The Angel Hadramiel _

_ Account Created - The Angel Virgil _

_ Account Created - The Angel Boamiel _

_ Account Created - richie’s secret account 5 _

_ Account Created - The Angel Zophiel _

_ Account Created - The Angel Izrail _

There was no accounting for it at all, and it just kept going faster. She’d passed it off as an internet joke that got big at first, but it had to be spam, or hackers, or something. Suyin grabbed her tablet and half jogged across the campus to the Head Office of the Head Office.

“Ms. Basak?” She rapped smartly on the door, “We have a situation.”

“Come in,” a tired voice said. Suyin pulled the door and saw twenty of her co-workers jammed miserably into the usually-spacious office. Ms. Basak was sitting in at her huge multi-monitor display. “We do indeed have a situation. So far, we have four _ million _ new accounts created, all prefixed with some kind of Bible reference.”

“So mark any accounts with the prefix as spam,” Suyin said.

Ms. Basak sighed and ran her hands through her greying hair. “It’s not working. _ Nothing _is working. And all these accounts - they somehow make top comments every time. None of them have posted anything, none of them are linked to anything else, it’s as if millions of very technologically competent people didn’t have an account and decided to get one.”

Suyin blinked. “Should we try a server shutdown?”

There were gasps around the room. They hadn’t had to try that since the 2030 New Year’s Nazi incident.

“Not yet,” Ms. Basak murmured. “Not yet.”

“Can we locate the accounts? It could be an organized thing.”

“That’s the strangest thing,” a stray intern piped up from where he sat against a wall “the locations indicate - well. Wherever they’re making the accounts from, it doesn’t technically exist.”

**Hell** \- The Same Day

“They’re doing what?”

“Travelling the webs, Lord Beelzebub,” said Mog carefully. He had to be careful, or ze would get angry and spit in his face. Not on purpose, ze just buzzed a lot.

“What web-zzz?”

“I - well, I’m not sure exactly. The demon Crowley is -”

“We do not SPEAK THAT NAME HERE!” Mog was sure that he had been taller than zir quite recently. No longer. “Look. If Upstairs is going at it, then we need in on it. How many people do you need?”

Mog blinked. He hadn’t been expecting -

“HA! Your face. I’m only kidding. You can have one underling, and no more.”

That was more like the Hell he knew. “Yes, Lord.”

“OY, CLAVICUS!”

“No,” Mog said quickly, “it’s actually quite alright, I don’t need anyone, really, just me. Lone wolf. That’s fine.”

But Clavicus was already waltzing their way along the dank hallway. “Yes, oh Lord of mine?” they bowed exaggeratedly. “Pray, what _ can _ I do for thee?”

“You’re assigned to Moggag,” said Beelzebub shortly. “Go on, then.”

It wasn’t that Clavicus was particularly evil, as demons go, or particularly good. It was just that they were the most genuinely annoying bugger Moggag had ever met. He couldn’t imagine they Fell for asking questions, or anything like that - no, God must have listened to their Egg Joke[15], and cast them out without a second thought.

“Moggag!” Clavicus cried. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Ugh,” said Mog. “Come on then.” He grabbed Clavicus’ arm and transported them both to the old container he had been working in. 

Clavicus peered around suspiciously. “What am I doing, then?”

“You need to get on the webs,” Mog said. “Go - go to a place with computers, and ask the mortals how to do it. I need to do some, er, recon - reckon - spying.”

Clavicus gave the most irritating salute Mog had ever seen. 

**Aziraphale’s Bookshop **\- Just Then

“Do you think we did this?” Aziraphale asked quietly, watching Crowley scroll down his news feed.

Crowley scoffed. “We don’t have enough influence to do _ this, _ angel.”

Aziraphale bit his lip, shifting closer to Crowley (to better read the screen, of course). _ The Second Coming, _ they were calling it. Obviously, the influx of angel accounts had made quite the stir. Crowley had been telling Aziraphale all about cybersecurity and hackers and scams and it was quite overwhelming, really.

Aziraphale had always liked the little banners that would pop up on old websites. _ You are the 100,000th visitor! _ They had such lovely colours, and they flashed so invitingly. He had wondered where all the money on his credit card had gone after that, but after all, they were only numbers. Very easy to miracle back to the way they were.

Of course, it was only now, years later, that Crowley deigned to tell him about _ scams. _ Aziraphale couldn’t possibly have admitted to falling for them, but the knowing look in Crowley’s eye made him think the demon might have caught on. Oh, dear, he was just letting Aziraphale keep his dignity, wasn’t he?

_ Well, _ thought Aziraphale, his shoulder brushing against the demon’s, _ I’ll allow it. _

**Joyful Yum Cha Restaurant** \- Two Hours Later

It was smaller than their usual fare, cramped and with little round tables packed with people. Crowley frowned as they entered. It wasn’t that he couldn’t deal with crowds, but rather than he preferred not to.

“How many?” a woman yelled at them from across the shop.

“Two!” Aziraphale held up two fingers.

The woman waved her own gnarled fingers around, indicating they could sit wherever they liked. Crowley let himself be led to a small table, nestled into the window alcove.

“Ooh, I do love these little menus,” said Aziraphale. “It makes it very easy to order as much as you want!”

Crowley looked down at the menu. It looked awfully like the forms they used to have in magazines - a spreadsheet, with a little box labelled ‘quantity’ next to each item you wanted. The only problem was that he had no idea what any of the food was.

“Angel,” he said slowly. “What’s a - a paper roll? Not actual paper, is it?”

“No, no,” said Aziraphale happily. “It’s a - well - it’s made out of rice flour, and it’s very squishy, but all the filling does tend to fall out. Let’s get some of those, hmm? Pork alright?”

Crowley felt his eyebrows pull together. “Sure.”

“Do you like red bean?”

Crowley blinked. “Beans?”

“Yes, sweet beans, they come in these delightful little buns. I’ll get some, shall I? After all, I can eat them if you don’t like them.”

Aziraphale went on and on listing the dishes, making cryptic comments, and ticking down the boxes like a madman. Crowley could only sit and watch in a dazed awe.

Bethor slunk in through the back of the shop. She wasn’t used to slinking - no angel should ever have to be - but she managed it alright, peering around corners and miraculously ensuring that not one of the kitchen staff glanced her way.

When she reached the main room, though, there were no seats. Not a single one available. Except for… 

“Ugh,” she groaned. “Hello again, Mog.” Bethor took the seat across from him reluctantly.

The demon ignored her.

“Look,” she said. “I’m just going to sit here, and you can sulk, and we’ll both do our jobs separately. Alright?”

Mog didn’t so much as twitch, his eyes resolutely fixed on the paper in front of him.

“Right, then,” she muttered, looking around. What kind of restaurant was this, with no cardboard menus to sneakily conceal herself behind?

She settled for holding a hand to her face as if to support it. Hopefully it would cover enough. She attuned her ears to the corner of the room hosting the traitorous pair, and wiggled in her seat to get comfortable.

After an hour of watching the angel beam at the serving staff, order what must be nearly everything on that flimsy menu, and grin adoringly at Crowley when the demon wasn’t looking, Bethor had just about had enough.

“Who cares how they pulled it off,” she said, eyeing Mog again. “We should just go home. Give it up as a bad job.”

He looked up for the first time. His eyes seemed to have receded back into their sockets a little. If he were human, Bethor would have said he looked tired.

“You can,” he said.

Bethor huffed. “Well, I’m not leaving if you’re not.”

“Look,” Mog said, suddenly urgent, putting his hand on the table between them. “Downstairs is trying to copy your little stunt. With the webs.”

“That wasn’t me! I don’t get consulted on that -”

“It doesn’t matter. The point is, what if that prophecy, what if this is what it meant?”

Bethor stared at him. “You mean… You mean…”

“What if it was meant for _ us, _ and it’s going to be our greatest downfall?” Mog’s eyes were unblinking. Bethor felt hot, then cold, and then very hot again.

“There is no _ us,” _she said. “It’s - it must be talking about Hell.”

“Heaven was the one who started it,” he snarled. _ “You _ were the one who started it.”

Bethor felt her hands start to shake. “No,” she said, her voice weak. “No, that can’t be right. I’m - I’m an angel. I couldn’t -”

“So is he,” Mog said, jabbing a finger in Aziraphale’s direction, “so don’t think you’re immune.”

Bethor shook her head again. “Well, it’s in the hands of the higher-ups now. There’s nothing we can do.”

“If it’s not us, then who is it?” 

“Huh-what?” Crowley was jolted out of his staring-while-Aziraphale-ate reverie. “Who’s what, how’s that?”

Aziraphale gave him a softly exasperated look - impressive, considering he had noodles hanging out of his mouth. “Who exactly is making all those counts?”

_ “Ac- _counts,” Crowley corrected. “And I would have thought it was obvious.”

“Obvious?” Aziraphale asked incredulously.

“It’s some bunch of extremely driven evangelicals. You know. Westboro Baptist. Gloriavale. Something like that.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “But why?”

“I don’t know, why do they do anything? For Eternal Glory and Honour?”

“I think it’s Heaven,” said Aziraphale. “All of Heaven.”

Crowley was immensely glad he didn’t have anything in his mouth, because if he did, it would have come flying out at a dangerous speed. “You _ what?” _

“Well, they’re all named after angels -”

“- I don’t think _ Heaven _ knows how to connect to the bloody internet -”

“- and they’re saying the right sort of Righteous things -”

“- _ righteous things, _ angel, they’re _ shitposting _-”

“- and oh, Crowley, stop interrupting.” Aziraphale flapped his free hand, the other one finding a plump bun from a steamer in front of him. “It doesn’t do us any good to run away from the truth. I thought we learnt that last time.” 

Big blue eyes blinked up at Crowley. He tried not to look at Aziraphale’s mouth which was biting into the soft round bun, a red-brown paste spilling over his lower lip, and - well, he’d already failed.

“Y-yeah,” he managed. “I just, um.” _ Pull yourself together, _ he ordered himself, and looked resolutely down at his plate. “If Heaven is doing this, then, well, uh, I, hnng, ack, ah - we’re _ fucked.” _

Aziraphale’s face went from amused to very solemn. “Yes, I know. We are rather.”

“Still, it’s been a good run, hmm?”

“A good run?”

“We’ve had nice lives,” said Crowley casually. “No matter how smited-to-a-crisp we get at the end.”

Aziraphale frowned. “It’s not like you to just give up. Whatever happened to Alpha Centauri?”

Crowley’s brain short-circuited, had a brief but overwhelming power surge, and then smoked helplessly. “N-nothing?”

“Exactly,” said Aziraphale. “Well, what I mean is - well.”

Crowley’s heart had started to overheat itself as well.

“It’s always - always a backup, isn’t it?” asked Aziraphale quietly. “I mean, it’d be a terrible shame, everyone dying and all that, and no more food, or books, but - _ we _ don’t have to die.”

“Ngk,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale seemed to remember he was eating a bun, and took a second bite. “Well. Anyway. Heaven. Yes. Right.”

“Mm,” Crowley said loquaciously.

“Well. We really ought to try to save this planet, first, though, hmm?”

“Yeah.”

“Right. Yes. I’m just a bit confused as to what exactly is going on.”

Crowley just nodded, lost in the way the bun dipped when Aziraphale took a bite, his tongue swiping a little of the red bean custard inside.

“Crowley?”

He nodded again.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale’s hand came up in front of his face and gave a little wave. Crowley jolted back, suddenly aware he had been leaning on an elbow, intently staring at Aziraphale. Well. Aziraphale’s mouth.

“Yes!” he said. “Yes, right, what - what’s going on?”

“Are you alright?”

“Tickety-boo,” he said automatically, and then clapped a hand over his mouth. “Oh no.”

Aziraphale giggled. “I’m rubbing off on you!”

“No, no, you’re not - angel - no -”

Aziraphale’s smile seemed to light up the entire restaurant. “I am, though, aren’t I?”

“It was - it won’t happen again,” Crowley said, his defenses thoroughly rattled.

“Of course not, dear,” Aziraphale smiled.

A beat passed, where Crowley tried to remember how to breathe under the crushing weight of an angel’s gaze.

“Anyway, er, now that I’ve got your attention, we need to sort it out.”

“I know,” Crowley sighed.

“I don’t suppose it’s too much to hope it’ll all blow over?”

At that moment, Crowley’s phone chimed, and he looked down at the screen out of habit. 

_ YouTube Account Scam Saga Continues with Demons _

“I think,” he said, his heart sinking, “that would be entirely too much to hope for.”

Mog glanced guiltily at Bethor. The traitors were talking now, very obviously, about Hell’s part in this whole mess. It seemed that Clavicus had figured out how to replicate whatever the angels were doing.

Bethor, sure enough, was glaring at him. “Your lot are doing it too!”

“It wasn’t - I - I didn’t make the decision.”

“Well, neither did I!”

They stared at each other. Mog was _ not _ going to be the first to break.

Mog was, in fact, the first to break. He looked away, his face hot. “Look, maybe we should go back to the Head Offices, and - er - explain.”

“Explain what, exactly? How we’ve been fraternising?”

_ Fraternising _wasn’t exactly the word Mog would have chosen for it, but he let it slide. “I don’t think they’ll listen to me.” It felt wrong, admitting that to an angel. Too vulnerable.

A beat passed. “Same, actually,” Bethor muttered. “I suppose that’s one thing Heaven and Hell have in common.”

“Oh?”

“Hierarchies.”

“We’ve got more than that in common.”

Bethor gave him a strange look. “Do we?”

“Well, we’re both doing whatever the Hell it is we’re doing with the webs.”

“I… Yes, I suppose.”

Mog sized up his next question carefully, as though it were a large Hellhound that could in fact remember his name, location, and flavour. “Maybe it would be, er, mutually beneficial if we… worked together?”

He half-expected her to disappear on the spot, but she didn’t. In fact, she didn’t even give him a dirty look. 

“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” she admitted. “I just don’t know if Head Office would understand.”

Mog nodded. “Well, let’s just not tell them. Not yet.”

Bethor considered that, squinting at him. “Alright,” she said slowly.

They didn’t shake hands, because angels and demons didn’t consider a casual grasping of mortal extremities to be much of an indicator of trust. Instead, Mog blinked once at Bethor. A blink was a vulnerability. A blink spoke a thousand words. In that second, she could have killed him.

Bethor blinked back at him, and then the table was empty, never having been occupied in the first place.

“Oh, God,” sighed Aziraphale. “What a mess.” As if to prove the point, he took up a xiaolongbao[16] and didn’t even bother to wipe his chin of the sauces.

“We need a plan,” Crowley said half-heartedly. “For when it all goes pear-shaped. Properly pear-shaped.”

Aziraphale was doing something complicated with his tongue in order to extract the maximum goodness from his xiaolongbao. He gave a muffled sound of assent. Crowley couldn’t help but feel that he was pulling all the weight when he didn’t really want to be lugging more than a banana. 

Crowley heard Aziraphale swallow. Thickly. “Why is it always pears?”

“You only listen to me when there’s food involved.”

“That isn’t true!” the angel cried, a touch too defensively. “I always listen to you, my dear. You’re right, we do need a plan. I just… don’t know what, exactly.”

“Oh, I know! Prophecy girl!” Crowley was very proud of himself. She would know what to do, and there must be some more prophecies hanging about by now.

“Anathema?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley nodded.

“She burnt the prophecies, remember?” Aziraphale’s voice was still wounded and hurt over that particular offence.

“Oh, angel, she’ll have come around by now,” Crowley dismissed him, getting up from the table. “Come on.”

**Heaven’s Head Offices** \- Just Then

It was the most exciting day Heaven had seen in a very, very long time. Each angel was embarking on new and exciting discoveries of a world that they hadn’t known existed the day before. You see, dear reader, there are not many people who come to the internet with six thousand years of life experience, yet not a single ounce of understanding of general human culture. It was, for lack of a better word, chaos.

Gabriel tapped frantically at the screen. He needed _ more, _ didn’t the damned thing understand? He’d only watched a ‘Vine Compilation’ as a private joke to himself, but then the mortals had started making jokes that were funny. So funny, in fact, it made _ you can’t have a war without War _ look amateur. Gabriel’s personal favourite so far was one that went:_ [I brought you frankincense - thank you - and I brought you myrrh - thank you - myrrh-DER! - *dramatic gasp* Judas!](https://youtu.be/hBsP1N89pYU?t=19) _Each time he’d watched it, he’d paused the video to laugh uproariously. As if Mary, Mother of God, would ever have said _ thank you._

Zagelzagel (very much a lesser angel) had tears in their eyes. They were watching [a hamster be fed a tiny burrito](https://youtu.be/9fnB0wz_5zo). Its cheeks were so chubby, and the burrito was _ so _ tiny… Zagelzagel could not help but weep.

Sandalphon, meanwhile, had discovered many new techniques for arguments that would help you to appear on the winning side. _ Build Another Wall, Change My Mind. _ That sounded promising. Sandalphon liked Walls. 

Ramiel, Cassiel, and Gagiel were deep in thought. They had taken an [Ancient Japanese Visualization Test](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iAHl5v7HRRM) and had been subsequently struck with the depth of their own egos. 

Virgil and Boal had become enraptured with [tiny food tutorials](https://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=tiny+food+tutorial&page=&utm_source=opensearch), once Zagelzagel had shared the tiny burrito video with all of accounting.

It would take more than six millennia to list all the angels and exactly what they were up to, but it can be summarized in a few words: Heaven had become unconditionally and irrevocably addicted to the internet.

**Hell’s Head Offices** \- The Next Day

Despite being full of the rebels, outcasts, and generally Fallen beings, Hell remained a very old-fashioned and unimaginative place. When they had set everything up, it had been with a general scratching of heads and the thought: _ what did Heaven do? _ Thus, it should come as no surprise that upon learning of Heaven’s mission, they immediately copied it.

Well, after Beelzebub was done embarrassing Moggag, anyway. It wouldn’t do to let lower demons like him get away with all that. After ze’d assigned him Clavicus, though, ze’d looked into these _ phones _ Heaven was using. They were remarkably like the ones Crowley had once suggested they use for - what had he called it - extra-physical communication. Bizarre.

But there was this - this thing. A game. Candy Crush.

And ze couldn’t stop playing it. 

Ze was vaguely aware that productivity around zir had slowed down. Ze’d waved her hand at the other demons, approved purchasing to get a whole lot of the little black square buggers, to Hell (quite literally) with it.

Hell had became sedated, almost meditative with the new technology. Even Hastur had stopped being so pissed off once he’d found out about _ Love Nikki. _ He almost had the whole Diamond Princess collection. For once, the fire and brimstone lay dormant.

Hell was - relatively speaking - at peace.

**[15] No, really. You don’t want to know.**

[return to text]

**[16] Also known as ** ** _Shanghai Juicy Buns_ ** ** among other variations. If the reader has not had xiaolongbao, there is very little point in explaining the experience. The reader ** ** _must_ ** ** try xiaolongbao.**

[return to text]


	7. Lurking in the Deep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [WanderingSilvan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderingsilvan/pseuds/Wanderingsilvan) for the beta! 
> 
> It's all starting to get a bit chaotic, and I've never written proper action scenes, so I'd appreciate if you let me know if you enjoy this! I've been reading a lot of Terry Pratchett recently, so you can blame that for all the POV jumps and confusion and shenanigans. Thanks for reading, and remember to stay awesome, people. Love you. <3

**Jasmine Cottage**

Anathema, it turned out, didn’t live in Tadfield any more. Aziraphale stared at the door with the sort of shock only a very old person could, when they hadn’t seen someone in fifteen years and they just happened to have changed their ways. It was, thought Aziraphale, completely unacceptable.

“Why’d she move?” he wondered out loud. “Lovely little place, this.”

“Eh,” said Crowley. “Garden’s a bit shite.”

Aziraphale ignored him. “Well, we’ve got to find her somehow. How - oh, hello, Adam!”

The Antichrist was standing in the gateway.  _ Blocking the exit, _ Aziraphale couldn’t help but think.

“Are you looking for Anathema?”

“No, we’re admiring the pansies,” Crowley said. “Of course we’re looking for her. Any ideas?”

“I think you should leave her alone. She’s not very friendly these days.”

Aziraphale didn’t know that he would ever have described her as  _ friendly _ \- not after the Prophecy Burning Incident - but the chill in Adam’s eyes was catching. It tingled up his spine.

“Why not?” he asked.

Adam considered him. “She’s fed up with Agnes. Sends her prophecies every week.”

“Every  _ week?” _

“Yeah. She’s tried going to sea and everything, but they always turn up. Have you watched the first Harry Potter film?”

Aziraphale didn’t watch  _ films, _ but he had read the books. “Oh, quite, yes, I see,” he said knowledgeably, earning a sneer from Crowley.

“Where can we find her, then?” the demon asked. 

Adam shrugged. “If she wants to be found, she’ll let you know.” Then as quickly as he had appeared, he had gone. Passers-by would have sworn they saw him turning and walking away, but the ethereal beings standing in front of Jasmine Cottage knew better.

“He really shouldn’t be using his powers like that,” said Aziraphale, who had miracled a new back door for his bookshop just that morning. He didn’t look at Crowley, but he could feel the raised eyebrow well enough.

“What now, then?”

“Well, oh - oh, actually, I might - let me check -”

_ “Angel. _ Do  _ not _ tell me you have her number.”

“Silly of me not to think, wasn’t it?”

Crowley groaned as Aziraphale pulled up his contacts. He scrolled through them, and - aha!  _ Device, Anathema. _ He pressed dial next to her name. It rang twice, and then she answered.

“Aziraphale?”

“Anathema! Dear girl, how are you?”

“I’m not giving you the prophecies, if that’s what you’re after.”

Aziraphale gnawed at his lip. Crowley was waving his arms at Aziraphale silently, an obvious message to  _ do something. _

“No, look, we’ve already got them, actually. I was wondering if -”

“You’ve  _ got them?” _

“Yes, I… I thought you must have sent them.”

“No. I… No.” Her voice was high with confusion, and something else.. “Look, don’t act on them, alright? I’ve had enough of bloody fate strings pulling everything together like my life is some fucking fairytale.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale exchanged a worried glance with Crowley. “Not to worry, we won’t, of course!”

“We? Is Crowley there with you?”

“Yes, of course.”  _ Of course. _ Was it really of course? Aziraphale didn’t have time to look at Crowley’s expression before Anathema kept talking.

“Oh, how’s he doing? How are you, er, both doing?”

Aziraphale exchanged another glance with Crowley, more puzzled this time. “We are very well, thank you. Pottering along just fine.”

“No big news, or anything?”

“No?”

“Oh.” Why did she sound disappointed? “Look, I’m actually due for a meeting in London tomorrow, we could meet up after that, if you’d like. It’d be nice to catch up.”

“Oh, yes, that’d be lovely, dear!”

“I’ll be at your bookshop after two. It’s the same place, isn’t it?”

“I never move,” said Aziraphale solemnly, and hung up.

**YouTube Head Office**

Suyin clapped her hands in triumph, jumping from her chair. “I’ve done it!”

The fifty-odd people crammed into her office looked up from their various screens, the hope dawning on their faces.

“The accounts - they’re…?”

“Blocked! All of them! YEEHAW!” Suyin jumped onto her desk and raised her hands to the tiled ceiling.

Cheers erupted around her. She wouldn’t have been surprised if party poppers started to go off, and confetti rained from the ceiling. She closed her eyes, and for the first time in her life, took the time to properly thank any God that might be watching.

**Heaven and/or Hell**

“WHAT HAPPENED?”

“My YouTube isn’t working -”

“I can’t -”

“Please, oh Satan, please, please -”

“FUCK YOU, HUMANITY”

_ “I need my vines, my vines, my precious vines” _

“Someone will FUCKING pay for this.”

**A Small Corner of Hell**

“Bethor? We have to stop this, angel, it’s gone too far. Beelzebub is in full-on tantrum and someone’s started throwing -  _ ow  _ \- chairs.” Mog ducked under a chair, holding the phone underneath his shoulder as he scanned for any more threatening, angry and internet-less demons.

“I’ve never seen Gabriel like this, he’s just sitting there, not doing anything, it’s… it’s terrifying. What do we do? … Mog? Are you still there?”

“Yeah, yeah, I was just avoiding the physical mani - manifes - thingy of someone’s wrath. Someone’s preaching about gender norms, and then there’s a couple of the water elementals shouting about bath bombs. They’ve all gone mad. What do we do?”

“I don’t know! Let them take their anger out?”

“No, no, let’s not fight - er, I don’t want Heaven and Hell to fight. Remember last time?”

“I didn’t say we had to fight  _ each other _ .”

“Who else is there?”

**The Misty Manor of Manifestations ** \- After Hours

Madame Tracy was just settling down for a cup of tea when she felt the usual knock on the inside of her head. Mr. Shadwell was actually rather shy when it came down to it, even though she’d effectively given him the spare key to the door in her head. Funny man.

She let him in and leaned back in her armchair, setting her feet up on the padded velvet footstool. 

“Hello, dear,” she said warmly. “Fancied a little visit?”

“Aye, well, I need to talk to ye ‘bout somethun,” he said. “There’s a wee rumour goin’ round here, an’ it’s nae good.”

“How bad can it be, love?”

“You remember Tadfield, aye?”

“Of course, but it was all stopped, wasn’t it?”

“Aye, that’s jus’ it. I don’t think it was.”

“What?”

“Most’a the souls down ‘ere think there’s something big comin’. An’ I saw a strange wee fella on the phone ta someone.”

“Well, what did he say?”

“Have ye still got tha’ ol’ gun?”

**Heaven**

“This is why God doesn’t  _ fucking _ love you!” Gabriel yelled. Sandalphon’s face was just so round and so annoying and his jokes weren’t funny at all. Why didn’t anyone  _ understand? _

“Sorry, Gabriel,” the angel said quickly. “Look, it’s just getting a bit out of hand -”

“Well, good. Who even cares anymore. Not me.” Gabriel sat down, hard, on Heaven’s ethereal floor. He let himself slide onto it. Face-down. 

A toe poked him in the side, and he manifested his wings, bearing himself up to full height. “WHAT?!”

“What are we supposed to do?” It was Uriel. “I just want the wifi back.” They burst into tears.

“We didn’t do anything wrong,” Sandalphon said. “Did we?”

“We  _ can’t _ do anything wrong, we’re  _ angels,” _ said Michael. “It’s not fair.”

“It’s not, is it?” said Gabriel, hovering in mid-air, feeling a righteous fury start to burn within him. “Not fair at all.”

The angels clustered around him started to glow too. Once their anger is properly kindled and stacked, angels can burn with the Eternal Flame of Mighty Wrath for decades, and it is not so easy as pouring water to put it out.

“Angels do not  _ do  _ Wrong. You know what I think this calls for?” Gabriel looked around at the angels - his fighters, his soldiers. “Let’s get some blessed retribution!”

The archangel’s voice echoed through the three spheres of Heaven; a call to action; a war cry.

As it turns out, you  _ can _ have a war without War.

**Aziraphale’s Bookshop** \- Just Then, about Morning Tea Time

“Ooh, dear,” said Aziraphale, bringing a hand to his stomach. “Gosh.”

“Hungry, angel?” Crowley was sprawled over his usual squashy couch in the sun. 

“No, actually.” A moment passed in which Aziraphale didn’t seem inclined to give him any more information. 

“What, then?”

“Hm? Oh sorry, I rather forgot you were here.”

Crowley propped himself up on one elbow. “I’m sorry?”

“Bother, oh, bother,” said Aziraphale. He was glowing golden in the sunlight, his hair catching and twinkling and his face seeming to effuse light. Wait. Not  _ seeming. _

“What the He - uh, what? Why are you glowing?”

“It’s Divine Wrath,” Aziraphale explained, wringing his hands. His wings manifested with a  _ snap _ and his feet drifted from the floor.

“And are you - angry?”

“No, but Someone is.”

If that Someone was the Archangel  _ fucking _ Gabriel… 

“What does it mean?”

“It’s a call to war. I mean, it can’t be. But that what it’s  _ supposed _ to be used for. Can it be?”

Crowley looked at Aziraphale, all aloft and glowy and undeniably Divine. “You tell me, angel.”

**Hell** \- A Few Moments Later

Mog stared at the phone beeping in his hand. Heaven really didn’t muck around.

“Moggag! Moggag! There you are!” yelped a voice. Beelzebub. Mog spun around to face zir, blinking rapidly.

“What?”

“I want my Candy Crush back,” ze said urgently. “You were the one who szzzuggested all this internet stuff. Pleaszze. You’ve got to help me. I was nearly on level sixty-six. Pleaszzzze.”

Mog worked his mouth silently. For once, he had information, real information, and a proper part to play in everything.

“The - the other side - they’re -”

“It doeszzn’t matter, Moggag, I want my  _ candy cru-” _

“It does, though, Lord Beelzebub! They’ve declared war on humanity!”

A ring of silence fell around Moggag, and spread through hell like smooth tar on concrete.

“War?” Beelzebub repeated. “On humanity?”

“They’re very angry,” Mog said, trying to keep his voice from trembling.  _ Breathe. Breathe. _

“Huh,” said Beelzebub, and then ze began to laugh. It was horrible, harsh laughter, the sound of a thousand bees echoing in it. “HZRHZRHZRHZRHRHHZRH,” laughed Beelzebub, and Mog bit the inside of his lip. 

Eventually, the noise stopped, and silence reigned once more.

“I am very angry, too,” said Beelzebub. “To war!”

_ “TO WAR!” _ echoed millions of demons.

**Outside Aziraphale’s Bookshop** \- Just Then

“Ooooooof,” said Crowley, and collapsed facefirst onto the pavement.

Aziraphale, who had been floating and therefore unable to catch him, quickly floated  _ down _ onto his feet and knelt by his friend. “Crowley? Crowley!”

“Unnnngh.”

“Are you alright?”

“Grand.”

“Look, here, I’ll just -” Aziraphale seized Crowley’s armpits and hoisted him onto his feet easily, wrapping one of the demon’s arms around him for support. “What is it?”

“Hell, too,” Crowley groaned. “Calling. To war. Fuck.”

Aziraphale didn’t approve of the everyday use of swear words, but in this case, he really felt it was called for. “Shit.”

**Adam’s Mansion** \- Just Then

“What is it?” Adam asked. His stomachache had just gotten a lot worse, and he didn’t want to listen to one of Aziraphale’s literature lectures right now. 

“Adam! We need your help!” Aziraphale’s voice was desperate even through the tinny phone speaker.

“I’m, uh, I’m busy,” said Adam. “Later?”

“I’m terribly sorry to inconvenience you, but - oh  _ really _ \- give it here, angel - right, then. Look, Heaven and Hell are on their way to destroy humanity and you’ve got to help us stop it.” The voice had switched to Crowley’s. 

Adam laughed tentatively. Crowley had a weird sense of humour, usually involving extremely elaborate pranks. 

“It’s not funny,” came a snarl, and Adam flinched. “It’s real. Get your ass here, now, we’re outside the bookshop.”

Adam clenched his eyes closed for a few seconds and felt his body twist through realities, landing quite securely on a patch of pavement in SoHo.

**Outside Aziraphale’s Bookshop**

“Adam?” called Anathema. She was accidentally three hours early for her meeting with the husbands (as she’d taken to calling them in her head). Her alarm clock - and her phone - and her watch - had somehow displayed very wrong but consistent times until now. “What are you doing here?”

He was sitting on the pavement, not looking entirely like he’d meant to leave the house. 

“Uh,” said Adam, squinting at her. “Hi, Anathema!”

“Hi,” she said, smiling despite herself. “Good to see you.” She held out a hand to help him up off the pavement.

“I was just talking to -”

“Crowley -” 

“Anathema Device,” a demonic growl sounded from somewhere behind them. Anathema whipped around to see Crowley standing there, his arms outstretched. “It’s been ssso long!”

Ignoring the hissing, Anathema grinned, and hurled herself into Crowley’s arms. “You demon! Why haven’t you replied to my texts for the last, like, year?”

“I might have had something to do with that,” said Aziraphale, awkwardly waving from behind Crowley. “I dropped his phone in my sink.”

“My old phone,” Crowley clarified, looking guilty as he stepped back. “I should’ve told you. Sssorry.”

“Hmph,” said Anathema, but shrugged it off. “So. What’s up?”

“Well, funny you should ask,” said Aziraphale, pointing at the sky. Anathema followed his gaze to the bright periwinkle sky - except it wasn’t all periwinkle, was it? Little spots of  _ something _ kept opening up in her vision, gone so quickly she couldn’t be sure that it wasn’t just her imagination if it weren’t for the sunspots they left dancing across her eyes. Each hole let through some kind of blinding white light. Or something.

“Oh, God,” said Crowley, and immediately started coughing like he was going to hack up a lung.  _ Dramatic bitch. _

“It’s the Heavenly Host,” said Aziraphale faintly. “All of them.”

**The Sky, or, Somewhere Around There** \- A Few Moments Ago

Bethor stood poised to dive. Her platoon was formed around her, all eyes looking straight ahead, fists clenched around weapons at their sides.

Only she looked around.

Principalities shouted, and Cherubim started screeching the long-forgotten war cries of millennia gone by. This was it. Her chance to finally prove herself, to prove that God had chosen right to keep Bethor among the Host. 

Her chance to kill humans.

Bethor had only been posted on Earth for a few years, but she knew so much more than any of the others in her platoon about it. She knew, for instance, that Mog thought sushi was disgusting, but that he’d liked the smell of yum cha (she could tell by his expression, no matter how sneaky he thought he was). She knew that Mog liked to be alone, and Earth was the only place he could do that. Bethor also knew, if she was being honest with herself, that she knew very little. About Earth. About Mog.

She knew that she wanted to know more.

And so when she jumped with the others, she closed her eyes and veered to the left. She abandoned her platoon. She landed on Earth, her bare feet pressed into the soft dirt, and looked up to see the entity she’d been looking for.

**Near Aziraphale’s Bookshop, Just a Bit to the Left** \- Just Then

Bethor had descended from the sky like some sort of long-lost Queen coming to claim her lands. Her golden hair was flying about her head, and she radiated a blaze of light.

“Er,” said Mog. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“I think we might have rushed into this whole thing a bit,” she said.

“Yeah.”

“It got very apocalyptic very quickly.”

“Yeah.”

“Any ideas on how to stop it?”

“Er,” said Mog again. “Not really.”

“Right. Well then, it was nice knowing you.”

“It was?” Mog asked before he could help himself. “Wait, you’re not - you’re not coming up with a plan?”

“A plan? What can we possibly do against millions of ethereal entities?”

“I mean, we can try. Maybe we can ask for help!”

“Help from who?”

**Outside Aziraphale’s Bookshop**

“What do we do?” asked Adam, sounding very young. “Crowley? ‘Ziraphale?”

The angel and the demon were currently staring at the sky with twin expressions of horror. Anathema huffed in frustration. 

“Come on, come on,” she said, taking a shoulder in each hand and shaking it. “Get a move on!”

Crowley broke out of it first, looking wildly around from Adam to Anathema. He seemed to be trying to say something, but without any luck, his mouth contorting to various positions without any noise coming out.

“I think,” said Aziraphale, “what he is trying to say is… There’s not a lot we can do.”

Adam made a high-pitched noise in the back of his throat. Anathema automatically moved an arm around him, rubbing his shoulder. 

“We have to try something,” she growled. “Are there any - ugh. Any prophecies?”

“Actually, yes,” Aziraphale said, “and they’re very confusing.”

“Um,” said Adam.

“Let me have a look at them,” Anathema said, resigned to her fate. Literally.

“Er,” said Adam.

“Quickly, then, they’re in the bookshop,” said Aziraphale.

“Wait,” said Adam. “I might have screwed up.”

A few moments later, Crowley took off his sunglasses to get a better look at the Antichrist, who had made good on destroying the world, only a few years later than anyone thought.

“You  _ what?” _

“I didn’t think they were important! And they were threatening my whole - I would have been exposed as the flipping Antichrist!”

“Couldn’t you just have unexposed yourself?” Crowley was trying not to shout, and failing.

“Aahhh,” said Adam, and bit his lip.

“It’s all, er, it’s all going to be okay,” said Aziraphale madly, his hands dancing about in a fashion that suggested everything was not, in fact, going to be okay. “Let’s just go inside, and have a cup of tea, and we can - er -”

“We do  _ not _ need a cup of tea, angel,” Crowley growled. “We need a stiff drink.”

“Oh, pull yourselves together,” snapped Anathema. “Fake prophecies or no, let me have a look at them.”

“We should really be doing something about the Host,” said Aziraphale weakly. “They’ll be here rather soon.”

“Okay, then. We’ve all got phones, right?” Anathema looked around at them all expectantly. Crowley gave her a thumbs up. He was probably being a terrible world-saver. “Okay. Adam, do you think you can hold off a million angry angels?”

Adam couldn’t even hold off tears, apparently.

“Here,” Aziraphale brandished a handkerchief. “Well, you can try, dear boy.”

Adam nodded dumbly, his lip trembling. “I’ll try,” he whispered. 

“Good. I’ll get the prophecies sorted, and I’ll let you know what you ought to do. Until then - Crowley, Aziraphale, you help Adam. I don’t care what you have to do, just, keep the planet alive until I get in touch.”

Crowley, Aziraphale, and Adam nodded. 

“What are you waiting for? Go!” She flapped her hands at them, backing away into the bookshop.

**A Nearby Lurking Place**

“So,” said Bethor, “I guess we could -”

“Give up and run away while they solve our problems?” Mog had to admit he didn’t have much faith. The humans seemed more competent than Crowley or Aziraphale, to be honest.

“No, Mog,” the angel said patiently. “We could help them.”

“The - the  _ traitors?” _

“Are you with me or not?”

Ice-blue eyes met grime-brown. “Alright, then. Let’s - er - let’s save the world.”

And for the first time, Mog saw Bethor smile.


	8. The Final Countdown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was a wild ride of a chapter to write, and I'm sorry it's a little later than I would usually post. Life and stuff is getting me a bit down, and I had to rewrite some of this because I really wasn't happy with it. Now, though, I'm satisfied it is at it's maximum angst-capacity, so... fair warning!
> 
> I do hope you enjoy, and please leave comments/kudos if you do, they mean so much to me! Bless you all. Stay awesome. <3

**Outside Aziraphale’s Bookshop**

“Right, then,” said Crowley, trying to appear calm. “Ten million angels. Yes. Right. Any ideas?”

If you have ever worked on a group project in your life, you will know a lot about a certain kind of silence. It is the silence of everyone’s minds working in exactly the same way yet denying it completely. This was the silence that reigned now - complete with eye contact being awkwardly avoided, and several shuffling feet.

Aziraphale, who had only worked on a handful of group projects in his life and was not overly fond of them, fought to keep from wringing his hands, and took the first leap. “Something could - could happen to them,” he said.

This silence was different. The angel’s words echoed through it, rippling with possibilities and barely-concealed threats.

Crowley made brief eye contact with Aziraphale, and raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Hellfire,” said Aziraphale, very quietly. The second type of silence continued as if it had never been broken. Until Crowley, unfreezing, broke it.

“Hellfire? Angel, that would - that would…”

“What choice do we have?” Aziraphale’s eyes lacked their usual light. “They will not stop, Crowley. I can feel it.”

Crowley didn’t want to think about what Aziraphale might be feeling from the Host that made him say that. He put a hand on Aziraphale’s arm - gently, gently. Just a hand.

“We have to try, though,” Adam said suddenly. “We have to ask them to stop, first. They deserve a chance.”

Crowley’s first reaction was to think, _ humans and their second chances. _ He had seen enough to know exactly what kind of idiot stuck around a battlefield asking for a surrender that would never come. 

He took off his sunglasses, and sighed. “And how do we do that, then?”

Adam’s eyebrows shot up suddenly. “They all have YouTube, don’t they?”

“Not anymore.” _ Who the fuck - _

Crowley was in between the unfamiliar voice and Adam and Aziraphale before he could register his feet moving. He held out his arms protectively, trying to bite back a guttural hiss.

“Who the fffuck are you?” he snarled.

The man - a _ demon _, Crowley could sense - held up his hands. “We’re on your side.”

“We know what happened,” the woman next to him said. An _ angel? _ Crowley bared his teeth at her. 

“What are you here for? Debt collection, is that it? Are you really the bessst Head Office can do?” Crowley sneered at the demon, who had the decency to look more than a little scared.

Aziraphale brushed past Crowley, who immediately tried to grab him back. “It’s alright, love,” the angel murmured. Crowley, equal parts terrified and dazed by the pet name, let him pass.

“What happened?” Aziraphale asked the strange angel.

She looked from him to Crowley to Adam. “You took the internet away. That’s why they’re so angry.”

“That’s _ it?” _ Aziraphale said. “That’s why they’re on their way to smite the entire planet?”

“Well, that’s easy, then,” said Adam. “We can just get the internet back!” Crowley turned around just in time to see him screw up his face in concentration, a golden strand of hair blowing over his face. He had a feeling it would not be quite that simple.

“Wait, Adam -” Too late. Crowley felt the ripple of power hissing through the air. Aziraphale and the female-presenting angel both shuddered at its Hellish nature.

Deep blue eyes opened to face the world. “It’s done,” Adam announced, smiling in triumph.

Crowley lifted his head to look at the sky. The lights were still coming, peppering the blue faster than ever. “Well, that was a big help,” he said.

“But I -” Adam’s face was a mix of indignation and fury. “I fixed it!” 

“Adam -” Aziraphale started to say.

“No! I’ll - I’ll tell them!” Adam pulled his phone out of his pocket, and began tapping at it furiously. After a few moments, he nodded, and held the phone out in front of him. “To all the angels of the world, fuck you! We got you your internet back, so just stay up there and don’t bother us!”

Crowley choked on air, realizing who exactly Adam was speaking to, and reached for the phone. The Antichrist was too quick.

“Remember when we stopped that War? The one last time? Don’t think you’re going to get another!” Adam yelled. “If you want your Webs, then you can’t blow them up!”

The broadcast was ringing loud and clear, as angels all around realized the internet was mercifully _ back. _ And that the Antichrist had a message.

Zagelzagel glanced at the angels around them. Some of them were picking at the hems of their war robes, trying to avoid eye contact as they flew down, down, down. They considered. Fighting was a lot of effort, and it wasn’t nearly as satisfying as those tiny food videos.

Oh, how Zagelzagel longed to try to make a tiny hamburger themselves…

And they would never get to. Not if they’d blown up the entire planet.

“Excuse me,” said the other demon, not unpleasantly. “But Hell is also coming, actually.”

Crowley jerked his head around so quickly his neck got cramp. “Right now?”

“Yes. Lots of demons. All of them. Beelzebub is, uh, pissed.”

Crowley whipped around again, his neck getting cramp in the other direction. “Adam, jussst _ wait -” _

Adam was already yelling at his screen, frowning in concentration, apparently incapable of just _ doing nothing for five fucking seconds. _Crowley let out a noise that didn’t quite encapsulate all of the frustration and fear boiling inside of him, but all the same made a shockingly good attempt at it. 

“Oh, dear,” said Aziraphale, and came to stand by him. Crowley felt Aziraphale’s hand start to rub soothing circles over his back. He didn’t want to admit how much it helped. “Let’s all take a deep breath, and start over.”

Two angels and two demons ignored a human shouting frantically at his phone, and took one deep, unnecessary breath each.

“Right,” said Aziraphale, still rubbing Crowley’s back. “Now, who exactly are you two?”

“Bethor,” said the angel quickly. “And this is Moggag.”

“Mog,” the demon corrected, looking embarrassed. “Just Mog is fine.”

“Lovely to meet you, erm, Mog, and Bethor. Now. We actually happen to have no small amount of experience in world-saving, so, you’ll do best if you just -”

“Angel,” growled Crowley, “get on with it.”

“Yes. Well. Obviously, the, er, immediate problem is the Host.”

“The demons are coming pretty fast too,” said Mog, his nose twitching nervously.

“Right. Yes. Any idea where they might turn up?” asked Aziraphale. His hand had stilled, now resting on the small of Crowley’s back.

Crowley groaned. “They’re too bloody traditional. They’ll start at Megiddo. Just like in the Great Plan.”

“They won’t -” Aziraphale started to argue.

“Exactly,” said Mog. “How much holy water can you produce?”

Aziraphale’s hand fisted in the fabric of Crowley’s jacket. “I’m sorry?” the angel asked pleasantly, with a serious undertone of _ I’m not sorry. _

“Holy water. We have to destroy them!”

“I’m not destroying anyone!” Aziraphale blustered. “Crowley?”

Crowley didn’t say anything.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale turned to him, his hand slipping away. “Don’t tell me you’re seriously entertaining this _ barbaric _plan! I can’t - I’ve never -”

“Angel,” said Crowley helplessly, “hellfire, holy water, what else can we do?”

“We can - persuade them! I - I - I’ll tell the Almighty, oh no, that didn’t work last time, but we can - oh - oh bother.” Aziraphale’s face sagged, and for the first time, Crowley saw the six thousand years he’d been carrying around. “I don’t want to _ kill _anyone, Crowley.”

“Enough,” snapped the female-presenting angel. Bethor. She was speaking to Moggag. “We can make as much holy water as we want. It takes a couple of minutes to bless each time, though.”

“What if we just threaten them with it?” Crowley asked. He hoped the desperation in his voice didn’t leak through too much. “Just - they’re terrified of holy water. They’ll back down once they see we’re prepared to use it.”

“They won’t,” said Moggag dully. “They’ll think we’re bluffing.”

_ Ask yourself. Do you feel lucky? _Crowley shook himself.

“Well, we’ve got to try.” As soon as he said it, Crowley felt odd. At once connected to the earth, and cut free from it. He felt - human.

“And what about the angels?” Aziraphale asked, looking as queasy as Crowley felt.

Moggag frowned. “Well, we can make Hellfire. That’ll do, won’t it?”

Crowley flexed his fingers reflexively. “Enough for ten million angels? I don’t think…”

“There aren’t ten million angels,” said a voice from behind them. Crowley jumped in front of Aziraphale for the second time that day. _ Why can’t they just behave like normal fucking people and say hello? _ “We do not want to fight. We want tiny food tutorials.”

“Zagelzagel?” Bethor asked, walking towards the troop of glowing angels. “You’re defecting?”

“I am going to watch tiny food tutorials now,” said Zagelzagel, pushing past them. “Goodbye.”

The other angels followed them[17].

“Hellfire. Holy water. Chop chop.” Bethor clapped her hands, startling Crowley out of his stupor. “Aziraphale, with me. Crowley, with Mog. Human -”

“Antichrist,” Adam corrected. “I’ll help with the talking.” He walked to Aziraphale’s side, and held out a hand expectantly. Aziraphale took it, and held out his other to Bethor. The angel took it with about the same enthusiasm as one might have when picking up a dirty tea-towel.

And then, between one blink and the next, they were gone.

Aziraphale popped up into existence, his feet hitting the sand with a jolt. The next thing to hit him was the sun, which was absolutely intolerably hot, and he held up a hand over his face to shield himself.

“Are those avocados?” asked Adam, looking over his shoulder at a nearby plain. “I like avocados.”

“Now is not the time,” hissed Bethor. “Do your Antichrist - thingy - human.”

Adam huffed but raised his hands and closed his eyes. Aziraphale watched in awe and fear as the sand in the plain directly below them began to spin in a raging circuit. It was like a tornado, except if a tornado was donut shaped.

Figures huddled in black began to pop up through the earth, only to be sucked into the eye of the storm. Aziraphale could hear them yelling in rage and fright. He cringed, remembering why they were there, why he was there, what he had to _ do. _ Couldn’t he just let Bethor do it?

A small part of his brain pointed out that that wouldn’t actually be any better, but he pushed it away.

“We need water,” said Bethor, looking around. “Come on.” Her light golden wings manifested with a snap, and she soared up into the air. Aziraphale followed, wincing at the muscles he hadn’t used for decades now. Flying was lovely and all, but it was Hell on one’s back.

“There,” Bethor said, pointing to an unhealthy-looking brown lake nearby. “Let’s bless that, and bring it back here.”

Aziraphale bit his lip and nodded, following after her as she flew.

Crowley paced back and forth on the SoHo pavement, trying not to think about Aziraphale facing down millions of angry demons. 

“Where will the angels come down?” he snarled at Moggag, who was watching him with wide eyes.

“I don’t know! Didn’t the, er, Aziraphale tell you?”

“I don’t think they’d go to Megiddo,” Crowley said to himself. “More Hell’s scene, isn’t it?”

“Where else is there?” asked Moggag.

Crowley threw his hands in the air. “Any-fucking-where!”

Just then, a tangle of coat and hair and flying bits of paper rushed out of the shop. “Tadfield!” yelled Anathema. “You have to go to Tadfield!”

Crowley grabbed her shoulders, said a fervent _ thank you, _ and manifested his wings.

“Oh, I can’t - I can’t fly,” said Moggag. “My wings were a bit damaged in, er. You know. The Fall.”

“Fuck,” said Crowley, feeling angry at and sorry for the demon all at once. “I’ll drive.”

_ “Drive?” _ Moggag yelped. “We can manifest wherever we like!”

Crowley shuffled his feet. “We can?”

“Through the earth?”

“Well, yeah, but, see -”

“Like every other demon?”

“They never really taught me -”

“You never learnt?!”

“I was stuck up here when they had the courses on,” said Crowley gloomily. “And then it was just too awkward to ask.” 

Moggag gaped at him for a second, then seemed to resolve something and grabbed his arm. “Hold tight, and you’ll be fine.”

It only took five minutes to do the blessing, collect as much water as they could in two monsoon buckets, and bring it back, but Aziraphale could see that the storm wasn’t as strong as before. Adam’s power was weakening, and the demons inside weren’t getting any less angry.

“DO IT NOW,” Adam’s voice drifted to them, louder than should be possible. “DO IT QUICKLY.”

“Wait,” said Aziraphale as Bethor went to upend her bucket. “Wait! We have to offer them a chance!”

“Do it quickly, then,” she said, her nostrils flaring.

“Right.” Aziraphale cleared his throat, miracled his voice to boom like thunder, and spoke. _ “HELLO, DEMONS OF HELL. THIS IS YOUR, ERM, LAST CHANCE. SURRENDER NOW, GO BACK HOME, AND WE WILL LEAVE YOU ALONE. IF NOT, WE WILL TIP THESE VERY LARGE BUCKETS OF HOLY WATER ONTO YOU. NOW, GO HOME.” _

The storm dropped away completely. Aziraphale glanced back at Adam, who was sitting down heavily on the sand below them. The demons looked around warily, eyeing the two glowing angels in the sky. Aziraphale could just make out Beelzebub from here. She was waving her arms around and yelling something he couldn’t hear.

And then they started to retreat. Demons burrowed back into the earth, leaving only little piles of upturned dirt in their path. Gone, gone, gone. Aziraphale choked back his sigh of relief. Finally, Beelzebub turned, made a very rude gesture, and was swallowed by the earth.

It was then that Aziraphale had the presence of mind to look around. Gabriel had always told him during the laborious training exercises for the first War, _ check your peripherals, Aziraphale, or what are all those eyes for? _

So Aziraphale checked his peripherals.

And swore.

Crowley was _ not _ fine. Crowley did not appreciate the sensation of dirt squeezing past him, or was he squeezing past it? It didn’t matter. It was _ horrible. _

“Aaarggggmmmmmmmmfk,” he moaned, realizing opening his mouth was a bad idea when mud forced its way inside. He could feel insects _ crawling _ around him in the earth, and that was just not on.

His only consolation was that it was over soon, with a hard _ thunk _ as Moggag’s head broke the concrete rim of the airbase. Crowley spat and coughed up dirt as soon as he broke the surface. 

“You’re not supposed to open your mouth,” said Moggag, brushing himself down. “That’s the first lesson.”

“Thanks,” said Crowley drily, trying to pick gravel out of his teeth. “So, where the fuck are they?” 

The airbase was eerily abandoned. There were no soldiers, not this time, not even a guard on the gate. Then, steps sounded behind, and Crowley spun around, raising his hands to -

“Mr. Crowley!” Madame Tracy said, her smile wide and delighted. “Oh, thank goodness I found you.” She nodded to Mog, who nodded back. Or, rather, he moved his head up and down and grimaced. 

“Tracy…?” Crowley asked. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought we were needed again!” she exclaimed. “The Second Second Coming! Isn’t it?”

“I - well - uh - yes? How do you know that? No, don’t bother. Angels. Have you seen them?”

She gave him a _ look. _ “Have you gotten into a domestic?”

Crowley was glad that Mog was making choking noises for him, so he didn’t have to bother.

“Now, he may be a bit fussy, but that Mr. Fell is a keeper, Crowley. If you’ve done him wrong, you’d best apologise, soon as -”

“We haven’t,” said Crowley faintly. “Had a domestic, that is.”

Something in his pocket vibrated. Thank _ fuck. _ Crowley pulled out his phone. _ Anathema. _

“What?” he asked, picking up.

“Oh thank God, I tried to call Aziraphale but - look. This prophecy. You have to get rid of the angels _ soon, _ Crowley, as quickly as you can. You’ve got four minutes.”

“What?” Crowley yelped. “How do you know?!”

“The prophecy, it says, _ the time must not blah blah twenty hours blah blah the burn will be eternally damning.” _

“What the _ fuck _ does that mean?”

“I don’t know! Let’s not find out!”

“But they’re - they’re not here!” 

“They’re not - what?”

“Shit,” said Crowley, who had entirely forgotten that aside from being traditional, Heaven were the biggest copycats on this side of the galaxy. “I’ll call you back.”

In his haste to land, Aziraphale ended up on his hands and knees in front of Adam.

“Get Crowley,” he gasped. “You have to get Crowley. _ Now.” _

Adam paled out of existence.

Aziraphale got to his feet, braced himself, and turned around. Bethor was standing in much the same pose as him, arms open in shock. And beyond her… 

Aziraphale didn’t need to make use of his ethereal sight to know that the angel in the lead of the Host was Gabriel. He knew exactly the look the Archangel would be giving them.

Divine rage swarmed towards them, and Aziraphale could do nothing but wait.

One of the benefits of being an occultist is that you can See. You can See, beyond what your brain thinks you should be able to. So when 6.5 million angels filed into Aziraphale’s bookshop, Anathema Device saw each and every one of them. She saw each and every one of them, and was disappointed in each and every one individually.

“What are you doing here?” she yelled. Anathema Device saw each and every one of them and knew that they could hear her. _ “What are you doing here?” _

One looked up from their phone, and stepped forwards. “I am watching tiny food tutorials,” they said solemnly. “What are you doing here?”

Anathema did not sputter. She never sputtered. Instead, she silently made movements with her mouth, and stared.

“I,” she said after three seconds of not sputtering, “am trying to avert the Apocalypse. Again.” 

Anathema Device could see each and every one of the angels, and each and every one of the angels could see her. They saw her, and they knew that her disappointment was individually allotted, to each and every one of them.

The leader bowed their head. “Human,” they said gravely, “you are very wise. If we help you, will there be more time to watch tiny food tutorials?”

Anathema did not sputter, and moved her head up and down in a nod. 

“Then what may we do for you, mortal?”

“I - I can’t,” Mog said desperately. “Something is blocking us from Megiddo. I can’t get us there.”

Crowley was beyond pacing, beyond sunglasses, beyond gritting his teeth. He pulled at his hair. “Aziraphale is in danger. Your angel is in danger. We - you - have to _ think of something!!!” _

He was only aware of shaking Mog by the lapels a few moments after he’d begun. It was too much. It was too much, and Aziraphale was probably dead already, and Crowley had just been _ standing _ on the wrong side of the earth _ waiting _ for some second-rate demon to come up with a solution.

“Why don’t we all just calm down, and have a nice cup of tea,” Madame Tracy said. Both demons ignored her.

The second-rate demon was looking equally frustrated, actually, and he tore out of Crowley’s grasp. “You think I don’t know that?” he scowled.

Crowley growled, his stance shifting to aggression. He didn’t have to just stand around waiting. He could -

“Stop!” said a voice from behind them. “Stop, what are you - we don’t have time for this, let’s - shit - oh, come here.” 

Adam took both of their arms, forcing them apart, and then Crowley had left his stomach behind - figuratively - at Tadfield Airbase.

“Oooh!” came a voice. Not that it mattered. None of it mattered. Aziraphale was facing down against the wrath of all that he had betrayed, and the voice would not make a difference. “I feel all tingly after that.”

The voice would not make a difference, but he could at least respond to it. _ “Madame Tracy?” _ he asked incredulously. It felt a lot better to just pretend like the Host wasn’t coming straight for them.

“Aziraphale!” 

_ That _voice could make a difference. Aziraphale tore his eyes away from the ever-nearer Host, and soft-blue met harsh-yellow eyes. 

“Crowley,” he breathed. “Thank God.”

“Thank Adam, actually,” muttered the Antichrist, pushing past Aziraphale and assessing the oncoming army with a matter-of-fact eye. “Look, I don’t think I can control angels as easily. My power, it’s - it’s not made in the same harmonics, or something.”

Crowley took Aziraphale’s hands in his. “Angel,” he said fervently, “before I - before we - there’s something I have to tell you.”

Aziraphale couldn’t breathe. Crowley’s voice made all the difference, but he hadn’t expected it to choke him like this. To silence him. 

“Aziraphale,” he went on, and dropped to his knees in the dirt, like the dramatic sod he was, “I love you.”

Time stopped. Crowley’s voice made Aziraphale feel different. His words made everything different. Properly. It was - it was _ real. _Aziraphale looked down at the demon who had gotten muddy knees for him, just to make things different, to change it all when Aziraphale had been resigned to the same forever, and smiled.

Of course, that was when Adam shouted a warning, and Aziraphale felt himself being ripped bodily away from his new reality. He didn’t even get time to shout.

Adam could only watch as the lead angel - the scary one, with lavender eyes that for all intents and purposes were shining a bright red - tore Aziraphale away from them. The rest of the Host followed, their wings clipping over their little band of humans, demons, and angel as they flew on.

_ “AZIRAPHALE!” _ Crowley screamed. Adam couldn’t listen to him, he couldn’t think about that. He had to summon his powers. He had to do _ something. _

He focussed, and thought of earth and dirt and its solidity, and then there was a wall of it right where he wanted it. A mountain that had not been there before, right in the way of the Host.

The leading angel merely swerved to avoid it. But there was more. Another wall. Another mountain. More dirt, more and more and more, because Adam couldn’t control the angels, but he could control the earth in a way that Heavenly beings couldn’t ever dream of. He made it higher, when the angels tried to escape that way. Higher and higher, looping back, until they were enclosed by a great dome of dirt, little bits of rock pelting down around them. It was near pitch black, the only source of light the angels glowing with wrath.

“One minute,” said Tracy faintly. 

“What?” Bethor asked, not uncalmly. “Until what?”

_ “The burn will be eternally damning,” _ said Crowley, in a voice that was not his own. “We have to get rid of them. In one minute.”

The Host landed, after the dirt dome had been created, and they had realised there was no getting out. Gabriel dropped Aziraphale in disgust, and his shaking legs betrayed him. Aziraphale sank to the ground, trembling.

“This is all your doing,” Gabriel spat, leaning over him. “Traitor. Why haven’t you Fallen yet? You’re worth less than your pet demon over there. I wish you’d -”

“Gabriel,” said Michael urgently, at his side. “I understand you wish to reprimand the Principality, but there are more important things. The demons are doing something.”

Aziraphale looked up to see black wings against the dark of the dome. _ Crowley. _

“Wait,” he said, pushing himself onto his knees. Gabriel pushed him down again, not even bothering to look at him. Aziraphale closed his eyes, bracing himself, and went on. _ “Wait.” _

“You dare?” Michael asked, her tone like ice. “Be quiet, Principality Aziraphale.”

“They are going to kill you, if you do not listen,” Aziraphale said quickly.

Gabriel laughed. It was an ugly laugh, cutting through the air like a blunt knife trying to cut hard cheese. “I understand, Aziraphale, that discorporation may be a real fear for stupid angels like _ you, _ but -”

“You don’t understand,” Aziraphale interrupted. “You don’t. They’re going to use Hellfire.”

A silence rippled through the angels at that.

“That,” said Gabriel tightly, “is a War Crime. They will not use Hellfire.”

Aziraphale stared. For all that he had thought he knew Gabriel, knew what made the archangel tick, he had no idea how Gabriel had got it into his head that Crowley and Aziraphale would _ still care _ about the Heavenly Laws. Well. Aziraphale cared, just a tiny bit. Crowley did not, and would not.

“If you die today, it will be of your own ignorance,” said Aziraphale. He made no attempt to hide the cracks in his voice. “Reconsider. Surrender. Please.”

He looked up at Gabriel, and saw nothing in his face except hate and fear. Aziraphale knew, then, that the angels would never be swayed. He knew, and yet he made no move to escape. He would stay, and he would try.

Aziraphale couldn’t give up. Not now.

“Twenty - ah! - seconds!” Madame Tracy yelled, as she was transported along by Crowley. Bethor was carrying Mog, and Adam had managed to manifest his own wings, and Crowley was trying very hard not to cry.

“We have to get Aziraphale out of there,” he said. “We’re not firing until he’s out.”

Crowley wished, in that moment, that he hadn’t been damned with sensitive sight, and that he couldn’t see what his angel was up to. He was on his knees in front of Gabriel. He was begging. _ Begging. _ He was not trying to escape, nor was anyone trying to stop him. 

_ Angel, what the fuck are you doing, _ he wanted to shout. Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to hear him. _ Angel, get out of there. Come back to me. I fucking love you. _

“He’s not leaving,” said Mog. “We have to fire.”

“Ten seconds!” 

Crowley stopped time.

He stopped time, and stopped it again just to make sure, and flew down down down to Aziraphale. He couldn’t get close enough, though, and Aziraphale was still just kneeling there. Crowley could feel time trying desperately to break through the dam of his will. And it would. So soon. Too soon.

_ “AZIRAPHALE,” _ he yelled, and his angel looked up. Crowley could see his face, his eyes, his lips, one last time, he got to see them one last time. _ To the world. _ He’d do it for the world. _ Aziraphale, you’re my world, _ he wanted to say. _ Why can’t I save you? I want to be selfish. I’m a demon. I should be allowed to be selfish. _

Warm, soft, blue eyes held his. They told him it would be alright. They told him everything was going to be okay. They told him it was okay, but that he shouldn’t be selfish.

“But I love you,” he said. “I _ love _ you. What the fuck am I supposed to do without you?” _ You can’t die now, not when we’ve come through so much. It wouldn’t make sense, and this world, oh God, I wish it made sense. _

Aziraphale’s mouth formed words, so very quietly, and Crowley couldn’t hear, he was going to miss out on the last words he ever heard from his angel because he couldn’t _ hear _ over the ringing in his useless ears.

“I can’t hear you,” he said brokenly, because the world didn’t make sense.

Aziraphale’s eyes softened (at least he could _ see _ him), and he spoke louder. “Crowley, I trust you, do not be afraid, and know that I -” 

Time punched him in the gut.

Crowley felt the tears starting, stinging his cheek, and time restarted without so much as an _ excuse me. _ He tried to hold it again, but it was falling away from him. It was like clawing at the pearly gates of Heaven. Impossible. _ Please make sense make sense make sense God please have a Plan - _

Crowley felt it falling, and time starting, and time running, sand slipping through his fingers.

“I’ll protect Aziraphale,” he heard himself saying to the others.

Adam’s breathing was coming fast and uneven. “Do we fire?”

“Five… four…”

Crowley nodded shakily, and held out his hands.

“Three… Oh, dearie me,” said Madame Tracy, “I think my watch is slo-”

Hellfire erupted through the air, clawing and exploding with the wind. Time and heat and fear slipped through Crowley’s fingers. He focussed on nothing but the miracle he needed, an Aziraphale-shaped bubble of safety, a point of light amongst the dark red pain.

And Crowley prayed.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**[17] The question “How many angels can dance on the head of a pin?” has not been satisfactorily answered. If you were to ask, however, “How many angels can fit in a SoHo street?”, you would be just as confused. The very idea of a place scales itself to the idea that the nearby beings hold of it. If I were to tell you that six and a half million angels had just pushed past Crowley, you would not believe me, and so the space would retain its relative scale. Congratulations: you hold all the power. You just can’t see far enough to do anything with it.**

[return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pssst, if you're really worried about something horrible happening here, you can check the tags! (Hint: No Major Character Death)


	9. Hellfire and Healing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late, real life has been kicking my ass. Some content warnings for major injury. Stay awesome y'all <3

Crowley didn’t know how he’d gotten onto the ground. He could have flown, or fallen, and it didn’t matter, all that  _ mattered _ was Aziraphale and -

_ “AZIRAPHALE!” _

This was all so familiar.

Crowley stumbled through the flames licking at his heels. Tears stung at his cheeks, clawing inevitable lines of grief into him.

He blinked through them, scouring the desert frantically, begging to God, Satan, anyone who was still listening. 

“ _ AZIRAPHALE _ !”

His voice cracked, hoarse with dust and grit and yelling.

They couldn’t - he couldn’t - surely there was no-one and nothing so cruel to take it all away, not  _ now  _ -

“ _ AZIRAPHALE _ !”

Crowley fell to his knees, and felt his trousers smouldering amidst the flames.

“Aziraphale,” he croaked, putting his face in his hands.

Crowley wept.

Gentle hands rubbed his shoulders, and a voice soothed him. It would have been embarrassing to be calmed by a human if he wasn’t so distraught. Crowley didn’t push Tracy away, and she continued to murmur nonsense things like  _ it’ll be alright _ and  _ you’re okay, love _ and  _ I’m sure he’s fine _ .

It was that last one that spurred him back onto his feet.

Crowley looked at Tracy, and she squeezed his hand and wished him luck. He tore away from her and resumed his search with more determination. He would find Aziraphale. He  _ would. _ Somehow, through the smoke and flame, somewhere, on this ancient plain.

It was disturbing how little death and destruction there was, given how many angels they’d killed. All there was to show what had been were ashes and dust, kicked into the air, swirling around Crowley and threatening to stick in his lungs. Fire, too. 

_ It’s not a bookshop, _ Crowley told himself, and he had to look at the sky, over and over, to remind himself.  _ The world isn’t Ending. It’s not a bookshop. _ It was too hard, though, despite his common sense, and he was overcome with desperation and his short fast breathing.

_ “AZIRAPHALE!” _ he screamed again. No response, and no sign of anyone on the horizon. He tried not to think about what  _ the burn will be eternally damning  _ could mean. It didn’t make any sense, Agnes was usually so specific in her prophecies,  _ thy cocoa doth grow cold. _ Why, then, would she have left this so vague? 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said again, weaker, stumbling over a rock. “Aziraphale, please.”

He didn’t know how long he’d been walking when he saw it. 

A pale beige coat.

Draped over - 

_ “Aziraphale!” _ Crowley yelled, his voice re-invigorated, and he ran through the licks of flame and clouds of ash to his angel’s side. 

Aziraphale wasn’t moving. Crowley stopped by his side. He breathed in. Out. Deep. He had to - he had to check. To roll him over. To see.

Wouldn’t it be easier, just to leave him? To stop time, in this moment, forever? He wondered how long he could suspend it. Like beads on a string, piling up, more and more, until they had to run down once more. But oh, to stay in this moment. The uncertainty. The not-knowing.

Was it better, sometimes, not to know?

Would it be better now? Now that this unmoving angel, his best friend in the universe, lay unmoving and silent, faced away from him? If he never saw his face, could he forever deny it to himself? Crowley didn’t want the last thing he saw of Aziraphale to be his dead eyes. He couldn’t - he could not do it. 

It would be better not to know. It would be easier, and he wouldn’t have to be so sick inside, forever. He could leave, now, fly to Alpha Centauri, and never know.

But what if Aziraphale was just barely on the brink of consciousness, and he’d roll over, and speak his last words to Crowley, and they’d break his heart clean in two, but for some insane reason it would be  _ worth it _ to drink in the last few moments of his angel’s presence? What if he could heal Aziraphale, and this moment of hesitation, it was to be the reason he failed? What if, what if, what if -

Crowley knew. Crowley knew that he wanted to know. He  _ had _ to know. If there was one thing he had always needed, it was to  _ know. _

He reached out and touched Aziraphale’s shoulder. It was warm.

Crowley pulled on his shoulder, and Aziraphale splayed onto his back, his head lolling to the side alarmingly. But his lips moved, and a faint sound stirred in the back of his throat, and Crowley could have cried, but all he did was stare.

“C-Cr-Crow...ley…?” Aziraphale murmured, blinking his eyes open.

Crowley swallowed down a sob of relief, and took the angel into his arms gently, so gently. 

“I’m here,” he said, tears starting to stream down his cheeks in earnest. “I’m here, angel.”

Aziraphale smiled up at him. His face was covered in ash and dust and - and something else that Crowley’s brain couldn’t process right now.

“I love you,” said Aziraphale. 

Crowley’s brain started fervently not processing something else entirely, and he felt his body shake with it. His veins were full of something hot and cold and endless and scared. Crowley didn’t trust himself to speak. So he did something else.

He leaned in and kissed Aziraphale.

Mog had been trailing Crowley as he wandered over the plain, shouting his angel’s name. He’d felt sort of obligated to, honestly. Crowley was a traitor. But so was Mog, now, and Crowley was actually a complete mess. 

Bethor was at Mog’s side when Crowley finally found Aziraphale. They watched as time stretched around the pair of them. Bethor sighed when Aziraphale declared his love.

“Finally,” she said. “I can’t  _ believe  _ they didn’t know.”

Mog thought that it wasn’t a case of them not knowing, but choosing not to know. The evidence had been there all the time, shared food and shared looks and shared hearts, but somehow the solidness of words had never been breached. It was a bit dumb, really.

And then they started doing something with their mouths.

Mog screwed up his face. “What the actual -”

“That’s disgusting,” Bethor agreed. They looked at each other and reached a silent agreement, turning back to watch the mortal-style kiss with a strange fascination.

Mog couldn’t help but wonder what it felt like.

Aziraphale never wanted to let go of Crowley. The demon’s lips were soft and gentle beneath his, impossibly tender, in a way that the Aziraphale before today would never have been able to imagine.

Was the aching all over from six thousand years of love and questions resolved? The pain on the side of his face was actually becoming more than a little unbearable. Aziraphale pulled away, and smiled up at Crowley, which only made it hurt more. He winced, and winced again.

“I love you too, in case that wasn’t obvious,” Crowley said, blinking eyes gone full yellow down at him.

It was rather obvious, actually, and had been for a long time, in hindsight. Aziraphale lifted a hand to Crowley’s cheek, and froze when he saw it. 

“What -” he started, and then Crowley swore, eyes raking over him. 

“Angel, you - you’re -”

Aziraphale lifted his other hand in front of him. It was fine - normal, all working perfectly. But the other - 

“Well, it’s not so bad,” Aziraphale said, examining the damage. “Just a little, er, burn.”

Crowley bit his lip and looked so immensely guilty that Aziraphale had to act. He tugged at Crowley’s arm with his good hand.

“It’s fine, Crowley. I’m fine.”

“Angel, it’s not just your hand,” Crowley said, tears starting to dribble over his cheek. “I didn’t - I - oh, Someone, I didn’t protect you.”

Something clicked in Aziraphale’s brain. The left side of his body began to throb in earnest, burning hot and yet still chilled by the slight wind.

“It’s - Crowley, don’t -”

“I’m so sorry, angel, I’m a useless excuse for a demon, oh, I -”

“No, stop that,” said Aziraphale, focussing through his swimming head. “Don’t feel guilty. We’re both alive. I’m fine, and I - I love you.”

Black spots started to crawl over Crowley’s face. Aziraphale reached out in terror to brush them away. 

The last thing he saw was a bright-red burnt hand against Crowley’s pale and perfect skin.

Anathema wondered, as she called and called and called, how bad it could be. The world hadn’t Ended - not yet, at least. It’d probably take a little time to spread to London. Would it?

She called and called and called, and got so sick of Crowley’s voicemail that she called Aziraphale instead. He didn’t pick up either.

Anathema, perhaps, should have looked outside earlier. She should have looked outside earlier, but she didn’t, and so it came as a total shock when Crowley appeared right next to the window, and tapped at it, carrying an angel-shaped bundle.

Anathema looked outside then, and behind Crowley, she saw the screens. She saw Megiddo, encircled by a great dirt wall, and she saw Hellfire, which was not something humans should ever have to see. The Second-Notapocalypse had come and gone, and all she had done was call people, but this was not something that she processed at the time.

At the time, she saw Crowley, right next to the window, tapping at it, and carrying an angel-shaped bundle in his arms. She saw tracks of tears through the grime and ash on his face. She saw Aziraphale’s charred jacket sleeve, and his burnt hand hanging out of it. 

Anathema allowed herself to swear, and rushed to let them in.

Crowley had no idea how healing worked. He had no idea if Anathema’s healing would actually work. He had no idea if angels needed healing, or if they could be healed, or if the Hellfire would eat Aziraphale from the inside out. But he did know that  _ if _ angels could be healed, it would be Anathema who could do it, and whether or not she could, the only thing that would make him feel better right now was watching someone go through the process of healing Aziraphale.

She made Crowley chew herbs, and chop up garlic into cubes, and mix salves, and say funny words that left the air tingling. He was too much taken with his responsibilities to wonder if they were, in fact, necessary. Mainly he did what he was told, and kept his hand on the good side of Aziraphale’s face, and talked to the angel. He did not stir, but he breathed deep and even which made Crowley feel a lot better.

At some point, Adam must have brought the others back from Megiddo. Tracy made cups of tea that challenged the quality of Crowley’s miracled ones. The other angel and demon remained somewhere in the bookshop, muttering in low voices. Adam sat by Anathema and watched the healing with wide eyes. He had - thank Someone - turned off his livestream, though Crowley could see it being replayed on the news outside if he turned his head.

After a stretch of time involving several cups of tea, it was dark outside, and Anathema sat back on her heels, her sleeves rolled up and cheeks red with exertion.

“He just needs to rest now,” she said.

Crowley grabbed at her arm. “Will he be alright? It’s hellfire, and I don’t know if -”

“He’ll be  _ fine. _ There’ll be scarring, I think, but the injury is - well, it’s surprisingly human.”

Crowley blinked. Anathema gave him a wan smile, exhaustion sitting heavy over her brow, and began to pack up her things.

There was something Crowley had forgotten. Something important. Something -

“Thank you,” he said. “I don’t know where we’d be without you. And - and, Tracy, thank you. For the tea, and the, er, moral support. And Adam. For the - dirt stuff.”

Tracy waved her hands about as if to say  _ it was nothing, _ Adam blushed and hid behind his phone, and Anathema smiled with much more fervour this time. And somewhere behind a bookshelf, an angel cleared her throat.

“And thank you, Bethor and Mog,” Bethor said pointedly. Crowley turned his head to her. He could have sneered. He could have driven them out. But he was so tired - not just from the day, but from the millennia of enmity. If he could love one angel, well, he could tolerate another.

“Thank you, Bethor and Mog,” he said, and smiled at them.

Mog’s head popped out from behind Bethor. “If you don’t mind me asking,” he began, “would you tell us how you did the whole holy-water-hell-fire trick with Heaven and Hell?”

Crowley wondered if that should be a warning sign. “Why?”

“Well, you see, we’ve just betrayed them too,” said Bethor very slowly and clearly. “We don’t actually want to be killed.”

“Oh,” said Crowley dumbly. “Oh, yeah, I forgot.”

“And we’re really curious, and it’s the whole reason we were tracking you in the first place,” Mog added, grinning.

Crowley raised an eyebrow.  _ “Tracking us?” _

The grin slid off Mog’s face. “Oops.” Bethor grabbed a book from a nearby shelf and hit him with it. Lightly.

“You know what,” Crowley sighed, “It’s fine. We shouldn’t talk about it with everyone here, but, uhh, later. Okay?”

Mog and Bethor’s eyes lit up with the same fire, and they nodded eagerly. It would have been  _ cute, _ if Crowley wasn’t so worried and tired.

“Alright. Alright! Everyone out!” Anathema announced. “Apocalypse averted! Good job! Home time! Sleep time!”

The whole group left with a general mumbling and shuffling of feet, and promises of a private chauffeur home from Adam, leaving only Crowley, Aziraphale, and Anathema.

“Crowley?” she asked gently, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll come back in the morning, if that’s okay. To check on Aziraphale.”

Crowley nodded and put his hand on hers. “Thank you, again. You’re a lifesaver. Literally.”

She squeezed his shoulder and let go. “I know. Rest if you can.”

Crowley knew he wouldn’t, but nodded again anyway. “Sure.”

“See you tomorrow,” she said, and the bell above the door rang as she closed it behind her.

Crowley was sitting on the hard floor next to the couch, and he shuffled a little closer to it, and leaned his head against Aziraphale’s stomach. It was, he had to admit, an excellent cushion. For the first time in centuries, he didn’t think he’d have trouble getting to sleep. But, also for the first time in centuries, he didn’t want to leave his waking consciousness behind.

Aziraphale woke to a squashy, comfortable surface beneath him and the musty aroma of his favourite books. He drank in the motes of Chaucer, revelled in the sparky flavour of the Berlioz records, and shivered a little when Donne’s poetry made itself known. The faint weight on his stomach he hadn’t noticed was there moved then, and a hand was put on his cheek.

“Angel?”

Aziraphale allowed himself a smile, and let out a gasp of pain at the resulting stretch on his left cheek. “I’m - ahhh - Crowley?”

“I’m here, I’m here, don’t move, it’s alright, everything’s okay, angel.” Crowley’s hands were soft and firm on the unburnt side of his body. “You’re okay, love.”

“Love,” Aziraphale whispered, and opened his eyes. Crowley’s eyes were there, unburdened by glasses, wide, dimpled-lemon yellow, honest and inviting.

“Yes?” Crowley asked, the faintest tremor in his voice. Aziraphale, despite his groggy head, saw straight through the demon in the way he really had to start doing more often. 

“I love you,” Aziraphale murmured, and he really,  _ really _ had to start doing that more often too. He had to, because Crowley’s eyes softened more than he had known was possible, and crinkles formed at their corners, and his face was overtaken with familiar expression that Aziraphale now recognized as  _ adoration. _

“I love you too,” Crowley said in a rush. “Angel, I love you so much. But how are you feeling?”

“I have a feeling,” Aziraphale smiled, “that I will be just fine.”

Crowley sighed, his shoulders rolling with exasperation. “But how do you  _ feel?” _

“Like I love you.”

“You  _ sap,” _ Crowley accused, leaning in to nuzzle at his cheek, the relief in his voice somewhat ruining the effect of the insult.

“I will be fine, though,” Aziraphale insisted, his head clearing more, letting up more space for the complete and utter happiness starting to flood through him. “As long as I’m with you.”

“Ngk,” mumbled Crowley, and buried his face in Aziraphale’s neck.

And so the very first day of the rest of their lives began.


	10. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sweet epilogue for you, my dear readers. I do hope you enjoy. I'm going to be posting another big multi-chapter fic as part of a mini bang in... welp... 6 days! If you liked this, keep an eye out for it, but it will be something completely (and I mean COMPLETELY) different. I'll be posting on my tumblr @ gay-star-knight if you wanna yell with me about anything!
> 
> Till next time. Stay safe and sane and awesome. Love you all <3

It ends, as it will begin again, with an angel and a demon being head over heels in love. That’s really all there is to it, unless you want to - oh? - you do want to see that?

Huh.

Alright, then. Be my guest.

**The South Downs **\- 2036

The South Downs used to be a quaint little spot. It used to have little cottages and sweet rolling fields, grass waving in the sea breeze, saying hello to the world. It used to be the sort of place you’d imagine Demeter had overseen personally.

The grass had been replaced with concrete, and the cottages with cookie-cutter brick houses, one after the other after the other. _ Aww, what a shame. _ And it might be, if you hadn’t lived for six thousand years. If you had, however, lived for six thousand years (give or take), and only been truly happy for one (exactly) of them, you might’nt mind so much. You might actually buy one of the cookie-cutter houses on a whim. You might drive a certain angel all the way out here with a blindfold on, and kiss him when he complained, and laugh when he told you to watch the road, and never, ever take your eyes off him.

The Bentley had been self-driving since 1956, and Aziraphale knew this, and Crowley knew that he knew that Aziraphale knew this.

Crowley told Aziraphale to stay _ right where he was, _ and he came around the side of the car to open the door. Aziraphale hadn’t opened a door in a year, and Crowley fully intended him to never have to go to the trouble again.

“Where _ are _we, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked as Crowley’s hand took his. He guided his angel out of the car carefully, slipping another hand around his waist.

“Just a few more steps,” Crowley said. He guided Aziraphale through a white gate, and up three concrete steps, and through an unremarkable green door.

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale. His voice wobbled. “What are you…”

Crowley pulled off the blindfold, and Aziraphale gasped.

“You - you - you - oh, you _ demon,” _ Aziraphale said, and turned to Crowley, and kissed him. 

The house was unremarkable, but its occupants weren’t. The neighbourhood was unremarkable, but Crowley and Aziraphale found there was still a remarkable diversity in neighbours. They went to local community fairs, and they donated to the local church[18], but they actually spent most of their time inside.

Doing what, you might ask? That _ is _ the question, isn’t it. The one that Mog and Bethor found themselves determined to discover.

“Why are we spying on them?” Mog hissed. “We could just go and - knock, or something -”

Bethor scoffed. _ “Knock? _ Listen to yourself. You’ve gone native.”

Mog was very aware of Bethor’s strawberry shampoo, and the way it made him feel dizzy when she shook her hair out. Oh, he had _ definitely _gone native. But somehow he couldn’t quite bring himself to regret it.

“What are they doing, then?” Mog poked his head out of the top of the bush. He couldn’t see anything, but if he extended his demonic senses, he might be able to hear -

“Oh,” he said, and felt his face flaming. “Bethor, I think we should go.”

“No - what - why?” she asked, elbowing him. “They’re up to something! I just know it!”

“Well, yeah, they are, but, er…”

Mog trailed off in horror. Bethor followed his gaze and squeaked.

Standing at the window was a _ very naked _ Crowley.

“Piss off!” he yelled, flapping his hands. “This isn’t a show, you know!”

Bethor made a gagging sound next to him, and took off into the blue sky, her wings shining in the light. A second later, she swooped back down and lifted Mog around the middle, carrying him with her.

Maybe he was just an idiot, but all he could think of was the silken brush of her hair against his shoulders as she flew.

**Somewhere in the Air ** \- 2037

_ Let’s get married. _It shouldn’t be hard to say. Crowley knew it shouldn’t be anything but an afterthought, not after six millennia of this, not after the glorious kissing and more glorious sex and even more glorious declarations of eternal love.

But it was.

It was, and so he had to pull out all the stops. Make it so Aziraphale couldn’t possibly say no. He couldn’t. 

_ Could he? _

That is how Crowley ended up proposing on a hot-air balloon, complete with miraculously chilled oysters, champagne, and a lapful of angel.

And a plane. With a banner. 

“It’s overkill, isn’t it,” Crowley groaned, leaning his head into Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Please don’t hate me. Angel. Angel?”

Aziraphale, it turned out, had been quite overcome by the whole display. His face was red, his eyes wet and his love - well, eternal.

“Yes,” he breathed. Crowley felt as if he’d been punched in the face. Or slapped. Or kissed very, very passionately.

I’ll leave you to figure out which.

It was a quiet ceremony. By human standards.

By Divine Standards, it breached every law, everything that was known in the cosmos, an inherent overturning of the sacred texts, a slap in the face of God.

“I don’t care,” Aziraphale said, when Crowley bugged him about it. “I don’t.”

Crowley looked properly at the burn on the side of his face for the first time in weeks. It was always there, but most of the time he just - forgot to see it. Now, he looked, and he felt a twinge of guilt. 

“Don’t,” said Aziraphale, noticing his preoccupation. “No, no, don’t you dare, Crowley, I am _ right here _ and I am with you and you are good enough.”

They were married, in a quiet ceremony, the next week. Adam was in charge of teleporting everyone, and Madame Tracy was in charge of officiating. Anathema was in charge of making sure Newt - who had not quite been forgotten - didn’t break anything. Mog and Bethor were in charge of not embarrassing themselves. 

Crowley and Aziraphale stood on a small piece of the wall from which humanity had fled. This time, when Aziraphale’s clear blue eyes met Crowley’s stretched yellow ones, they told each other nothing but the truth. This time, they both cried. This time, their small band of friends stood around them, making comments that ranged from adorable to wildly inappropriate.

And so they began again.

**A Small Yet Interesting Sushi Place, London** \- 2062

While Bethor had never really taken to food, Mog had discovered a new and exciting love for eating. Aziraphale had given him recommendation after recommendation after recommendation of all the culinary delights in London, and after forty years, he was still wading his way through them all.

But he came back to this place often.

Bethor had come with him this time. Sushi, she said, was the most acceptable food out of the lot of them. She called it _ clean _ and _ tidy. _ Not when Mog ate it, though. And besides, she was quite fond of soju.

Mog took another piece of sashimi between his fingers. It was oily and glistening. _ Delicious. _ He took one end in his mouth and slurped it up the way humans did with noodles.

“Honestly,” said Bethor. “That’s never going to stop being disgusting.”

Mog grinned at her through a mouthful of half-chewed fish. She screwed up her nose. He leaned forwards and flicked it gently.

Bethor was quieter after that.

They made their way through their fish and alcohol respectively.When Mog’s plate was licked clean of wasabi, he distracted the server with a loud _ crash _ from the kitchen, and they snuck out behind his back.

“It wouldn’t kill you to pay,” said Bethor, but she was smiling. Mog knew exactly what that glint in her eye meant, and where it came from. 

“Aziraphale overtips them every time,” he shrugged. “I’m just evening it out.”

Bethor laughed and tossed her head. Her hair cascaded in a glorious shining sheet over her shoulder. Mog wanted to take one of the strands in between a finger and thumb - just to hold it, to catch that light for himself if only for a moment.

**Joyful Yum Cha Restaurant** \- The Next Day

When Bethor got a second invitation in as many days from Mog, she should have declined it. She should have got on with her plot to overthrow the luxury stationery industry, or miracled rice up grain-by-grain-by-grain to annoy Heaven, or turned up at Crowley’s flat to get plastered. Well. Maybe not that last one. Last time she’d given altogether too much away, and now whenever the demon and his blasted angel looked at her, she had the feeling that they could really see her.

Bethor hated that.

And it wasn’t as if she had any solid reason not to go out with Mog for lunch. She was a completely free traitorous angel. The only boundaries Bethor faced now were some minor Heavenly wrath, and her own strictly self-imposed ones.

“Prawn dumplings?” Mog offered.

Bethor blinked. “Oh. No, I’m fine with - whatever this is.”

“It’s tea,” said Mog. “You want something stronger?”

“No, it’s fine,” she said, and took a sip of the tea to prove it. It was lukewarm and tasted faintly of wood.

“How’s the evil plot going?” Mog asked between mouthfuls. He managed to grin somewhere in there. “You know, the one with the staplers.”

“Holepunches,” Bethor corrected before she could help herself. “It’s - well. I need to make some calls, actually. I should go.”

Half a dumpling fell out of Mog’s mouth. “No, Bethor, wait -”

Her hands clenched into fists at the panic in his eyes. This was _ exactly _ why she shouldn’t have come. Mog was - he was messy, and his feelings were going to get all over her hands just like that blasted soy sauce -

She miracled herself to the pavement outside and bit her lip. A moment later Mog was beside her, wiping his hands on his pants.

She should probably apologise.

“What’s wrong?” Mog asked, stepping towards her. His voice was gentle. She knew his eyes would be, too, but she didn’t trust herself to look any further than the collar of his jacket.

“I - nothing.” Damn. She was usually so good at lying.

There was a beat in which they both accepted that she had lied, and she hated, oh Someone she _ hated _ that he held the future in his grasp. _ Please just accept it. _

“Alright,” he said, and Bethor made a mistake. She looked into his eyes. Fuck.

“Yes,” she mumbled, stumbling backwards. She turned and fled.

The hurt in his eyes clawed at her long after she’d locked herself away in her flat.

**Jasmine Cottage, Tadfield** \- That Night

Anathema liked to think she’d had a good life. Not that it was over just because she was eighty, but she was pretty sure the majority had been had. And it had been good. But even she, with her good life and relative human wisdom, didn’t know exactly what to do with the very stressed angel on her doorstep.

“Come in?” Anathema asked.

Bethor nodded and strode past her. She didn’t even look at Anathema. Anathema sighed, but closed the door and went to put the kettle on.

“I’ll do it,” said Bethor, seeing Anathema’s wrinkled hands struggling with the heavy kettle. “Here - here, let me.”

Anathema surrendered the kettle and sank into one of the wooden barstools. She watched while Bethor made the tea.

“You’ve gone native,” she said when they were both settled at the table with mugs of steaming Earl Grey. “Making tea like a pro.”

Bethor flinched. “Have I?”

“It’s not a bad thing,” Anathema said gently. “What’s up?”

“What makes you think something’s up?” Bethor asked.

Anathema snorted and didn’t dignify the angel with a response.

“Ugh,” said Bethor, running a hand through her golden hair. “I don’t know what to do.”

“About?” Anathema had a feeling she knew where this was going.

“Any of it! I just - I left Heaven, but I never meant it to get so - so -”

“So?”

“So _ messy. _ Native. Human.” Bethor sipped at her tea and looked miserable.

Anathema knew better than to feel offended at this point. “It was bound to rub off on you at some point.”

“But I just - I’m supposed to be above all of this. Habits. _ Feelings.” _

“I have a theory on this, actually,” Anathema said. “You want to hear it?”

Bethor twitched her head in a nod.

“The angels and demons I’ve seen - they’re not _ above _ anything. I met Beelzebub and Gabriel, you know, at the first Armageddon. And they weren’t ethereal or occult or anything. They were a bit strange, but it was just like - like when you go to a different country, and you don’t quite get how people work there. But they had feelings. It was so _ obvious _ to me that I didn’t really think about it, but then Aziraphale and Crowley - well. They didn’t let loose for years afterwards, did they? Even when they had no reason to bottle it up. They were so dumb, honestly, it was infuriating.”

Bethor smiled at that. “Yeah, they really were. I can’t believe they never - well, you know.” Anathema observed the reddening in Bethor’s aura with interest.

“Are you…?” she asked.

Bethor frowned. “Am I what?”

“Wait. Hold the fucking phone. Are you - oh, you _ are!” _ Anathema cackled. “That’s precious!”

“What???”

Anathema grinned. “In love.”

Bethor choked and spat out her tea. “What!?”

Anathema took one of Bethor’s hands in her own. “It’s okay. I know you’re scared. Just - don’t be dumb, please. You deserve more than that.”

Bethor swallowed audibly. “I - I -”

Anathema pulled the tissue box towards her. Bethor watched the movement with wide eyes. 

“Just take one,” said Anathema, batting the angel gently with the box. “It’s alright.”

Bethor took one. Took a deep breath. “I’m scared,” she said.

Anathema had spent more time than Crowley would ever admit providing support for a troubled demon. She was prepared, and she was determined.

“Tell me,” she said in her gentlest voice.

**[REDACTED] is in the Air** \- One Hour Later

Bethor held Anathema’s words firmly within her as she flew. She would be brave, and she would accept that life was messy, and she would - she would turn around right now and hide herself in her apartment and never come out.

No. That was her being scared again, wasn’t it?

She flew onwards. The night air was calm and still around her. Too still. But flying had always calmed her, the constant stream of air and noise and lights twinkling beneath her, and so she took deep breaths, and flew onwards.

She reached Mog’s apartment building in five minutes. He’d taken Crowley’s old flat when the other demon had stayed over at Aziraphale’s for twenty years straight. She didn’t feel like entering the human way tonight - there might be people in the foyer, standing too close in the lift, and Bethor was in no fit state of mind to deal with people.

She flew around to Mog’s balcony instead, and felt her heart seize with liquid terror when she saw him standing on it.

He waved to her, his face warm and surprised. “Another late-night flight?” he called.

She nodded, not trusting her voice. “Can I come in?” she asked, hovering awkwardly an arm’s length from the balcony. _ I will be brave. _

“Obviously,” he grinned, and stepped back for her to make her landing. She only stumbled a little, because Mog caught her arm as she lurched to the side. His hand was solid and warm. An embarrassing high-pitched noise made its way out of her throat. Mog just chuckled.

“Thanks,” she said. She didn’t pull away. _ Be brave. _ Neither did Mog.

“What are you - er - you want something to drink?” he asked. She always pretended to hate it when he stuttered over his words. It was messy, and Bethor was neat.

“Sure,” she said.

They went inside. Mog closed the sliding door with a soft _ click _ behind her.

“Soju?” he suggested. Bethor nodded.

He took the glasses out of a cabinet and started to pour. “You know, there’s another sushi place I think you might like - oh! -”

He gasped in surprise as Bethor stepped forwards and pulled his shoulder so that he was facing her. She batted the soju bottle away, not bothering to listen for the smash. It would probably end up all sticky on her shoes. Mog’s hands had paint all over them from his latest hobby. She took them and put them on her waist. She realized she would get paint on her white dress, and then she remembered that she didn’t care.

Bethor was neat, but Mog was messy. She was just now beginning to think that maybe she loved messy.

She looked up at Mog, into his green and brown speckled eyes, at his messy hair and his stupid perfect face. And then she kissed him. 

It was messy, and it was perfect, and it was everything that Bethor wasn’t, and everything that she loved.

**Just One More Scene** \- Six Thousand Years Later

Humans had changed the shape of time by this point. Gravity waves? Pretty elementary stuff, really. The stretch of civilization had started to spread over the universe by the 2500s. Civilization, of course, had changed its face too. Humans were no longer confined to their flesh-and-bone bodies. 

Aziraphale took quite a long time to get used to that particular change, but Crowley adored it, and overused his bionic eye so much he had to get a replacement within three weeks.

No, the only constant of humanity was change. Change, and a certain group of ethereal beings.

They were not widely known, for angels and demons rarely are. They didn’t define the narrative of history any more than what they felt like. They had long since learnt the value of a few close and trusted companions as opposed to a wide circle of vaguely animous ones. And they had long since had just that.

They tended to remain close, but if you’re willing to ignore the boundaries of space and time, dear reader, then so am I. They tended to remain close, but to each being a section of un-boundaried space was allotted.

Bethor had declared that North was the ‘best direction’, on account of the fact that it was at the top of every map[19]. It was certainly the best organized, with planets tending to follow a simple grid-based layout with numbered and lettered streets. There was some wonderful alcohol, but Aziraphale did not often visit, considering the cuisine to be a little subpar.

That brings us onto the other angel - who, even after all this time, was still more than a little traditional at heart - and took the East. The more organic beings tended to cluster around there, which suited him very well, and for his 7777th birthday, Crowley bought him a small planet. Aziraphale went on to construct a very grand and wonderful library on the entirety of it, with a replica of his very first bookshop hidden away where no-one but him could find it.

Mog had been drawn to the South. People were simple there, and Mog could relate to that. Mostly small-scale farming and primary industries, the planets boasted wonderful economies and very little actual work to do. Mog _ loved _ farming machines. Someone, but humans were clever.

Crowley had grumbled about _ stupid responsibilities _ and _ drawing the short straw _ and taken the West. It was not the most refined place to be, perhaps, but they had some damn good parties. Crowley had taken Aziraphale to one, only to nearly discorporate the angel halfway through with something called a pan-a-whatsit gargle blaster. That had been the end of parties for a while, but Aziraphale was a soft touch, and let up the ban within the decade.

All of that is to say that change is the only constant of humanity, but that humanity is a constant of the universe; that everything changed, and that underneath it all nothing ever does; and that the only thing to really matter, when it comes right down to it, is love.

**[18] Well, Aziraphale snuck out in the middle of the night and miracled a mysterious credit card onto the doorstep, and Crowley grinned to himself as he lay alone in bed, and loved his angel too much.**

[return to text]

**[19] If you are confused about how the concept of North can apply to a 3-dimensional universe, please see the ** ** _Encyclopaedia Galactica,_ ** ** the 3004 edition.**

[return to text]


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